The Best Part or Mr Monk Has a Guest
by SJO
Summary: Sequel to "The Missing Mollies." Sherlock and John take Monk's offer and come to San Francisco, but Monk seems usually cold. Then, people close to Monk's heart become in danger. Is another Brit they know living up to his promise? Why does Monk have a chip on his shoulder, and will it hinder him from solving the case? Please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

The Best Part, or Mr. Monk Has a Guest

a _Monk/Sherlock _Crossover Fic by SJO

Note: _Monk _is owned by USA Network, _Sherlock _is owned by BBC and PBS, not me. This is a much-anticipated sequel to my fic "The Missing Mollies," takes place about a year later.

It was an ordinary day. Natalie came over to Monk's apartment around 7:00 to take him to see Dr. Bell. He was cleaning his windows and preparing to run the vacuum really quickly before they left when Natalie's phone rang. She looked at the screen but didn't recognize the number, or the area code for that matter. She answered, "Hello . . . Oh, hello! Long ti—yes, he's here. Just a minute." She put it down. "Mr. Monk, it's for you."

"The Captain?" he asked.

"Nope."

"Is it Ambrose? Tell him I'm busy."

"No, it's not Ambrose. He sounds rather insistent."

So he took the phone, wiped it down, and held it cautiously to his ear. "Hello?"

A deep voice with a British accent answered rather angrily, "Don't tell me after all this time you haven't got a phone of your own!"

That was so abrupt, Monk nearly dropped the phone, but he picked it back up. "OK, here's the thing—I don't know how it is in England, but in America you have to pay every time you use it, even when people call you! I looked into it, but it's just too much."

"It's a worthwhile expense."

"Look, what do you want?"

"I'm calling to say that John and I are taking you up on your offer. We're coming to San Francisco."

"When?"

"Well, the plane's about to begin its descent, so we should be there in about an hour."

"What?! But—"

"Sorry. I have to get off my mobile now. See you soon." And the line went dead.

Monk hung up and looked at Natalie in a daze. "He's coming here."

"Sherlock Holmes? He's on his way to San Francisco? When?"

Monk sighed. "Today."

"Oh my goodness, we gotta get the place ready. I guess John's coming with him too?"

"Natalie, that can wait. Remember, I still got an appointment with Dr. Bell."

She checked her watch. "Well, yeah, in an hour, and it takes about fifteen minutes to get there."

"Better to get there early, and maybe he can meet with me before they get here. Besides, there's no telling how long it's gonna take in the morning traffic."

"We haven't had a problem with traffic before. You sure you wouldn't rather straighten up the place?"

"Dr. Bell first. Let's go." He started heading to the car.

Natalie was bewildered. He'd rather see his shrink than clean? That wasn't like him.

Monk was quiet on the way to the doctor's, even when Natalie tried to engage him in conversation. She considered speeding a little bit just to get a response out of him, but he did seem agitated in his body language, so she didn't want to put him over the edge. He remained quiet until Dr. Bell called him back. Just as he went in, Natalie's phone rang again. She looked at the screen. The number was still saved in her contacts, so she knew just who it was. She answered, "John, what the heck?"

"I'm so sorry, Natalie," he answered. "I wish I could tell you, but I'm just as much in the dark. I went to the grocery late this morning, well, morning where we are, and when I came back Sherlock said, 'Pack your bags, we're going to San Francisco.' And he's still keeping mum as to why. Is there some big case going on?"

"I haven't heard of any. We just solved one."

"No Moriarty sightings, I suppose."

"Not that I know of, no."

"Well, we're just now renting a car. Sherlock told me he's got Mr. Monk's address programmed into the GPS on his mobile. How far is his apartment from the airport?"

"Not far, but you can take your time. Mr. Monk's got an appointment with Dr. Bell."

"His psychiatrist?"

"Uh-huh. That's where we are now."

"OK, I'll tell him." His voice lowered. "Listen, I'm not sure this is going to be a pleasant. I think . . . Sherlock's upset with him."

"Really?"

"Well, they both got all excited about staying in touch, trading cases, and your partner hasn't even tried to contact us."

"You know, to be honest, I think Mr. Monk's upset with him. He's never talked about you or him or Moriarty or anything. It's almost like it never happened. Do you have any idea why?"

"No, haven't the foggiest. I thought they were getting on so well. At least, as best as one could with Sherlock."

Meanwhile, Dr. Bell noticed how agitated his patient was, despite how quiet he was. "So, what's going on today, Adrian? You seem . . . bothered about something."

"He just called me. Just a few minutes ago, he called me out of the blue. He's coming here."

"Who?"

"Him! I told you about him. From England?"

"Oh, the other detective." He had a tablet on his lap, and he used it to pull up notes from their previous session when they discussed him.

"Yes, him. What am I gonna do? I'm not ready for this."

"I know you're not prepared. It's usually very rude to just drop in unannounced, but he must genuinely think he could help."

"It's not that I won't mind the help. It's just . . . well, you know. We discussed it last time."

"Oh, yes." He was quiet for a moment and tapped his pen on his pad. "You know, Adrian, this reminds me of when I used to play baseball."

Monk groaned. "Another anecdote?"

"Just hear me out. It's the only way you'll understand the metaphor. Back in high school, my team was playing the Springfield Sharks. The first game we had against them was an away game, and we were . . . crushed. They dominated us the whole game. Every trick, every skill we had just didn't seem to matter. And as we studied the game, we realized that it wasn't so much because they were better but because they had the home field advantage. And I remember our coach said that we were too easily intimidated by them. He said they weren't playing our game; we were playing theirs. We further proved that when the Springfield Sharks played us in the finals, on our field, and we crushed them. Just knowing about how it's laid out, the grass, the feel of the dirt made it all familiar. And we realized there was nothing to be intimidated about."

There was a pause. "Is that it? So, what's the point?"

"Well, this guy's coming on your turf, now. Make sure he knows it. This time, just make sure he's playing your game and you're not playing his. You see?"

"Yeah, I think I can do that."

"OK." He went back to his notes to his current session. "By the way, Adrian, next time you see your brother, send him my compliments. I wouldn't be able to figure out this gizmo without his very clear manual."

"You said that last time."

"Did I?" He pulled up the previous day's notes.

* * *

Just outside of town, a tiny rental car made its way through a neighborhood. "When was the last time you updated this GPS?" John asked. "This does not look right at all."

"How would you know?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, for one thing, it's so far from the airport. I was sure Natalie said they lived in the city. And this doesn't look like Mr. Monk's kind of neighborhood." The GPS announced that they had reached their destination. John looked at the house. "No, this can't be right."

Sherlock stopped the car and gave him an "are-you-getting-out-or-not" look. John sighed and got out of the car. "You see?" he said pointing to the yard. "Why does he have a swing set? He doesn't have any children."

"It's unused," Sherlock observed.

"Unused?"

"No worn-out grass beneath the swings, rust on the—"

"OK, yeah, I get it, but why would he have an unused swing set in his yard?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps he's a playground equipment enthusiast." He went up to the door and knocked.

A nervous head, obviously not Monk, peeked through the curtain in the small window. Then the door cracked a bit and the head poked out. He said in a meek but still annoyed voice, "Look, I don't know what you're all on about, but I'm not doing any business with the United Kingdom at this time. The metric conversions are just too exhausting, and I always mess up when I try to adjust for dialect. I suggest you contact Steven Dilbridge. He lives in Edinburgh. Good day." He shut the door.

Both of them were somewhat shocked, then John said quietly, "How did we know we were British?"

The door opened again. "That coat you're wearing, Chalmers, manufactured and sold exclusively in London, and you're wearing a patch on your shoulder indicating you were in the British military."

He started to shut the door again, but Sherlock stopped it with his hand and opened it again. "Adrian Monk's brother, I presume."

"Oh, you're looking for Adrian Monk, the detective? You're way off. He lives on Pine Street, in San Francisco. This is Tewksbury. It's more of a suburb, about ten minutes away."

"Told you," John whispered.

The man looked down at his watch. "And now I suppose you should come in."

"Why? What is it?"

"It's 8:00 am, 4:00 p.m. your time. It's time for tea."

"Oh, that's very kind of you, sir, but it's not necessary. Just give us your brother's address, and we'll be on our way."

"Nonsense!" Sherlock interrupted. "John, I'm surprised at you. It's quite rude to forsake another man's hospitality. We would be most obliged, Mr. Monk."

The man started going back in but then turned back. "Ambrose."

"Pardon me?"

"My name, Ambrose . . . Monk." He turned away and went into the kitchen.

John gave Sherlock a funny look. "This isn't like you."

"We might as well. Mr. Monk's probably still meeting with his therapist."

"Well, how did you get his brother's address instead of his?"

"When I searched for 'Detective Monk,' I got a couple results, and I decided to try them both. They seem equally significant."

"Equally significant?"

"Yes. Obviously, this is his childhood home."

John stared at the piles of mail and newspapers stacked all around the place. "Are you sure? This looks like the polar opposite of the Monk we met in London."

"Well, he doesn't live here anymore, does he?"

"No, just his brother who most certainly is a hoarder."

"Please, make yourself at home," Ambrose said in a tone that suggested that nothing would pain him greater. "At least, as best as you can here." They both went into a living room and sat on a couch in the window. "I'm afraid the only tea I have for you is Lipton."

"That's fine," John said.

"But I'll make it up to you with the cookies—I mean, biscuits. Here, I'll go ahead and . . ." He carried into the room several vibrantly colored, narrowed boxes, just about all the colors of the rainbow, and dumped them on the counter.

"Oh. A lot of variety there."

"Yeah. Some little girls just won't take, 'No, I'm not interested in buying cookies today' for an answer. They usually start crying."

Hearing that made Sherlock think of what Ambrose said earlier. "Did someone else from England come here recently?"

"Yes, just yesterday, in fact. He came to the door dressed as a mailman with a parcel. He spoke with a New Jersey accent, but I recognized his shoes. Very expensive, and once again, only manufactured and sold exclusively in London. I told him he could be fined for impersonating a post office worker, but—" Just then, the kettle whistled. "Excuse me." He went back to the kitchen.

John started selecting some shortbread, chocolate-mint, and peanut butter cookies. Sherlock got up and looked at the stacks of mail. At the top of one stack was a small cardboard box, still not opened, with a London postmark. He recognized the handwriting.

"Here you go," Ambrose said, handing him a coffee mug with a big, black number six written on the side. Sherlock was amused and debated making a reference to _The Prisoner_, but he decided the matter was too grave.

He put the mug down. "Mr. Monk, you are in danger."

"What?"

"The man who gave you this package is very treacherous. He has proven by this that he knows where you live, and he can and will kill you. You must leave, at once."

Ambrose stepped back. "I can't."

Sherlock gave a very annoyed sigh. "Mr. Monk, I just said a very simple, monosyllabic, four-letter word. I may have rushed over it, but I am very certain that I said it. That word is _must. _It means that this is not an option or a request. It is a command, an imperative. Ability or lack thereof does not apply. You and your brother need to learn that word and add it to your vocabulary."

Ambrose continued to step back and wrapped his hands around a door frame. "You don't understand, sir. I _can't_!"

"Oh, I understand plenty! Your brother may be afraid of just about everything, even his own shadow, but you have the one fear he has not—the fear of the marketplace, _agora-phobia_. And I do realize this is quite an inconvenience for you."

"An inconvenience? Try an impossibility! I haven't been able to leave this house since I was a boy!"

"That's not true, is it, Mr. Monk? This house burned, didn't it?"

"Really?" John asked.

"Oh, come on, John! A colorblind dog would've noticed the scorch marks on the side of the house. Now, those firefighters didn't leave you in here to die, did they? Because I happen to notice you're still here, and the house is still here."

"What I said is still true!" Ambrose argued. "They forced me out, yes, but I wasn't able to leave by myself. Outside, it's just too . . . outside. It's much better inside."

"John . . . help me." He started trying to pull Ambrose from the doorframe. John used some of his training to hold Ambrose back. Ambrose was very stubborn, but they finally were able to get him to subdue him and pull him out. Sherlock made sure he took the package as well.

Yet as soon as they got outside, Ambrose started screaming, "HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP! HEEEEEEEEEEELP MEEEEEEEEEEEE! I'M BEING KIDNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPED!"

"Do you have any sedatives?" Sherlock asked John.

"Not with me, I'm afraid. I didn't have time to pack them."

"Wonderful. Well, just try to keep him calm. I'll put in the other address."

"How did you know he was agoraphobic?"

"Well, why else would his brother be so impressed that Mycroft could leave the house?"

* * *

As soon as the appointment with Dr. Bell was over, Monk went back to his apartment and started cleaning and straightening. He was acting more like himself, so Natalie started to relax. In fact, he seemed particularly anxious.

"You don't have to be so concerned, Mr. Monk. Remember how much a mess his place was?"

"Natalie, he's from Britain. They have television shows where they judge how clean your house is. I don't want him to think I'm a slob."

"He's not going to think that, Mr. Mon—"

Just then, there was an incessant knock on the door. Monk went to the door, took a deep breath, and said to himself, "It's my turf now." He opened the door.

"BROTHER!" Ambrose Monk wrapped his arms around Adrian's shoulder's way too tightly.

Adrian tried to get over his shock and pulled him away. "Ambrose? What are you . . . how are you-?"

"I've been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped? Who—?"

"Thank God I got away. They just stopped the car, and I ran to you as fast as I could."

"What-? How-? Who-?"

"What's with you, Adrian? When are you going to figure this out?"

It was just too much for Adrian. He couldn't get a word out.

"You have to excuse him. See, we're expecting company," Natalie said. "But you must be a wreck! Come on in, sit down. Do you want some water? I'll get some water."

"Actually, Natalie, I'd like something hot, and some aspirin. My throat's a little sore," Ambrose said quietly. Natalie nodded and went back.

Monk took a deep breath and pulled himself together. "Who did this? Describe them to me."

Ambrose started to calm down well. "They were British men. One of them is in the military. I should've looked closer at his patch to see his rank. But the other's very distinctive. He's tall, dark, curly hair, blue eyes, deep voice, rather gaunt looking, wearing a black trench coat and a scarf."

Adrian's eyes widened as he recognized that description, and as Ambrose was speaking, the door opened a little wider, and Sherlock and John stood in the doorway.

Ambrose shrunk behind his brother. "That's them!"

Monk glared at Sherlock. "What did you do to my brother?"

"Well, hello to you too, Adrian Monk," Sherlock said coldly.

"You know him?" Ambrose whispered in shock.

"I thought I did," Adrian replied quietly.


	2. Chapter 2

They all sat in the living room. Natalie got all the guests some water. "This idiot believes we kidnapped him when actually we rescued him," Sherlock explained.

"I prefer you not call my brother an idiot," Adrian said.

"Oh come on, you know he is."

"He's only saying that because Ambrose screamed in our ears for the past half hour," John said apologetically.

"You forced me out of my domicile and took me to places against my will," Ambrose argued. "By legal definition, that's kidnapping; therefore, I was within my rights to scream!"

"We were taking you to your brother!" Sherlock argued.

"Well, you never told _me _that!"

"We would've if you shut up!"

"Look, that doesn't matter," Adrian said. "You know Ambrose is agoraphobic."

"He does?" Natalie said.

"Well, if he doesn't, I'd be sorely disappointed."

"Yes, of course I do!" Sherlock answered, somewhat offended.

"Then no matter where you take him, you might as well lock him up in the worst torture chamber in the world!"

"There was no other option, Mr. Monk." He lowered his voice. "Moriarty's after him."

Monk only lifted an eyebrow. "Is he?"

"He impersonated a United States postage worker and delivered this parcel." Sherlock pulled the package out of his coat and tossed it to Monk. "He knows where your brother lives, and he will kill him."

Monk handed back the package. "Look, if you want to do a goose chase, I can recommend some detectives in the area to help you, but I'm much too busy."

Sherlock stood. "This is the man who kidnapped your wife's daughter! Who nearly killed her, and you, and me, more than once! It's no goose chase, Adrian! You knew this day was coming. He told you he was coming to America one day, and you asked for my help." He held out his arms. "Here I am."

"What are you even doing here? What brought you here? Did he tell you this was it, that he was coming to America to kill me and Ambrose? I mean, what other evidence do you have?"

Sherlock gave him an astonished look. "You called me!"

Monk looked equally confused. "No, I didn't!"

"Mr. Monk, I'm talking to your assistant. Didn't he call me, Miss Teeger?"

"Oh!" Natalie put her head in her hands. "I'm so, so, sorry, Sherlock. Early this morning, I meant to call Stephen, and while scrolling through my contacts, I dialed your number by mistake! You know, I was half asleep, and I didn't see the screen clearly. I'm really sorry; I didn't mean to cause you such trouble. Look, I'll try and reimburse your airfare, your rental car, your gas—"

"It's alright, Miss Teeger, that's not the only reason. The fact is, that's not the first time it's happened. You really should get voice recognition."

"Yeah, I know, but I can't afford it, not on my salary." She glanced over at Monk.

"I'm sure no salary's big enough," John mumbled.

"No, something else was suspicious," Sherlock said as he got out his phone and going through his setting menus. "When you called me, I first heard that someone had assigned to you a different ringtone."

He touched Monk's name, and they all heard a man's voice cheerfully singing, "It's not unusual to be loved by anyone."

"Tom Jones?" Natalie said. "That's not his style."

"As I suspected," Sherlock answered as he turned it off.

"Well, what was it previously?"

"A standard ring. I don't assign ringtones, so I knew someone had tampered with it, which means it's important."

"You sure? It could be just a practical joke."

"NO!"

"Don't ask," John whispered.

"I checked all my contacts. Mr. Monk's the only one that's altered." He looked at Monk. "Well, what do you think it means?"

Monk shook his head and shrugged. "I don't know. I don't like Tom Jones."

"Dad did," Ambrose said. "So did Mom. They loved that song. I think it was their song. I remember, before Dad left, they play that record late at night and would dance to that song. I mean, this is back when we still had a record player."

"Thank you, Ambrose," Monk said bitterly.

"Don't ask," Natalie mumbled to John.

"So the whole reason you came down here is to share with me a song?!"

"You're right," Sherlock said. "It is a little ridiculous. If you had Skype, it could've saved me time and airfare."

"Oh, so it's my fault that Natalie dialed the wrong number?"

"No, it's your fault for not keeping in contact with me."

"I was busy. Cases, cases, cases. San Francisco never sleeps."

"Well, neither does London. It's not an excuse."

"Guys, guys, please!" Natalie stopped them. "OK, the ringtone is weird. Maybe we can figure it out if we put our heads together. Let's just do some catching up now! Or maybe we can go to headquarters and see if the Captain's got something for us, you know, to pass the time while we try to figure it out."

"I have a better idea," John said. He picked up the package. "Let's find out what's in this."

"Good idea, John," Sherlock said. "Whatever's in here has got to be important."

"Are you sure we should open this?" Natalie said. "It could be a letter bomb."

"Not this light."

"Yeah. Letter bombs are a lot heavier," Monk agreed.

"Plus, I always thought it sounded like a maraca," Ambrose added. "Bomb wouldn't have that many loose parts."

"OK," Natalie nodded, but she still looked uncertain.

Ambrose insisted that he open it since the package was addressed to him. He got out a knife and very slowly, carefully cut around the edges.

"It doesn't have to be perfect," John said softly.

"What I do, you do not understand now, but you will in the future," Ambrose replied.

"Yes, but we want it opened today," Sherlock said impatiently.

"Hang on, I almost got it. Just one more . . . here." He put the knife down. And then he very slowly opened the lid.

"OH, COME ON!"

"Look, we cannot risk the product being damaged. To do so compromises the goods before inspection."

"WE'RE NOT GOING TO DAMAGE IT!" Sherlock yanked off the lid, and everyone looked inside.

Ambrose picked up a beanbag doll of a cute, pink pig with a silly grin on its face. Almost immediately, he threw it down on the floor. "Ugh! I hate pigs!"

"Who wouldn't?" his brother agreed. "Revolting creatures."

"You know, they can eat just about anything?"

"Yeah, they roll around in the mud, in their own—I don't wanna even think about thinking about it!"

"I don't even eat pork. It's so greasy. It's bad for cholesterol."

"You know, I had a case that involved a dead pig. I never told anyone, but I was so glad it was already dead and eaten by the time I got there."

"Right, fine!" Sherlock interrupted. "Pigs are awful. We all hate pigs. Two legs good, four legs bad, fine. What does it mean?!"

"Well, I certainly wouldn't have any use for it," Ambrose said, "so it can't be for me."

Sherlock pointed at him. "Good observation."

Natalie picked it up. "We had a case once that involved voodoo dolls. Victims received dolls depicting the way they were going to die right before it happened. This is a lot like that."

"Natalie, if it were a voodoo doll for me or my brother, the last thing it would look like is a pig," Monk reassured her.

"That's true, but still I thought I saw . . ." She reached down and picked it up. "Yes. Mr. Monk, look at this." She held the doll up to him.

On its chest, where the heart should be, there was a cigarette burn. And suddenly, Moriarty's chilling words came back to Sherlock, "If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn _the heart _out of you."

"Well, that's like I was saying," Ambrose said. "Pigs give you heartburn!"

"Let me see that, Miss Teeger," Sherlock said. She handed it to him, and he put his hand around it. "There's something hard in here."

"It could be like a sound card or something," Natalie suggested.

"I don't think so." He picked up the knife Ambrose used and cut a bigger hole around its heart. The Monk brothers both turned away. He pulled out a small videotape. "How archaic."

"Well, at least we know how to play it."

She found the camcorder, hooked it up to the TV, and started it. There was a little static at the beginning, but then there he was—the slick hair, the big brown eyes full of evil, the expensive suit, and that perpetually taunting voice. "Hello Adrian. It's me."

"That's him! That's the postal worker!" Ambrose said.

"Of course it is," Sherlock said.

The video wasn't one continuous shot, but it looked staggered like it had several edits. A few times, some images flashed on the screen, but they went by too quickly for anyone to tell what they were.

"I know this isn't the best medium. I was going to send you a DVD, but I don't know if you have a player. Then, I remembered, this is how you learned the truth of your dear wife Trudy. Ah, how romantic. I couldn't pass it up.

"I've lived up to my promise. I'm here. Sorry it took so long. But you know, I've been thinking about our last meeting, and I realize I've really been in remiss! I was rude to you, and I apologize. I never told you the best part.

"Do you remember what happened, what I said? Of course you do, look who I'm talking to. You went through your summation, and I told you that you did well but you left out the best part. I know it's tearing you up inside. Your fear is huge, but your curiosity is huger. I wonder about the size of your heart, Adrian. Just how big is it? Did it shrink after you lost Trudy? Did it grow three sizes after you found Molly? You know, I tested the size of our mutual friend's heart. It was bigger than I thought. It was bigger than _he _thought, I'm sure."

His voice got colder. "Anyway, that's why I'm here, to make it up to you. I have something to tell you, not just what you missed, but I know a few secrets not even our friend knows. I'm going to tell them to you. And you can get his help, if you want. I really don't care, because this time it's not about him. It's about you. It's all about you.

"I'm at the end of the trail of blood, Mr. Monk." He leaned in close to the camera and whispered, "Find me, if you dare." Then he smiled and leaned back. "Ta-ta!" Then, the picture went blank.

"That didn't sound good," Natalie said.

But Monk didn't seem to be listening. He got the tape out, and then he handed it to Sherlock. "Have fun."

Sherlock crossed his arms and wouldn't take it. "He said it wasn't my case."

"It is now. I got better things to do with my time."

"What, like polishing your light bulbs and dusting for the millionth time?" Natalie said.

"Better make it a million and one now that I have guests, and some of them are from foreign lands. Who knows what they track in?" He held out the tape again. "Stop by and tell me how it went."

"So you really don't want to know what he has to say?" John said.

"I already know. I'm not interested."

"You know?" Sherlock asked. "So, what is it?"

"You don't know?" This time, Monk's voice went cold. "Then I am very disappointed in you. I expected better."

Nobody knew what to make of that. Everybody was silent and still. But then John looked at the pig on the floor and picked it up. "I recognize this pig! I've seen it in the stores. It's evidently a new educational cartoon on British television. I think it's called . . . Pinky."

And then Sherlock began remembering other things. "I thought I recognized that callous on your pinkie," Monk had told him. And then he told Sherlock to love both his hands because he knew someone who was kidnapped and got his pinkie finger chopped off.

"The violinist," Sherlock said aloud.

Everyone looked at him. "What?" John and Ambrose said at the same time.

Sherlock looked at Monk. "You told me you once had a case in which a violinist was kidnapped and the abductors severed his pinkie finger. Perhaps this effigy is harkening to that."

"What?" Monk said.

"Surely you remember that case, Mr. Monk."

"That case . . . that case . . ." Just then, the phone rang. Monk promptly picked it up. "Captain! Thank you for calling . . . . Long story. What can I do for you? . . . . What?! No! . . . . Absolutely, we'll be right there." He hung up and looked at Natalie, his eyes starting to well up with tears. "Tommy Gracer disappeared."

"Oh no, little Tommy?" she said.

"Who's Tommy?" John asked Ambrose, who shrugged.

"HE'S MY SON!" Adrian cried out.

Everyone jumped at that.

"Well, he's not . . . technically—" Natalie started to explain.

Adrian got up. "Captain says there's evidence he wants us to inspect at headquarters. We have to find him. Now. Come on, Natalie, let's go."

"You're not leaving without us!" Sherlock called after him. Monk looked back at him. "Give me the address. I'll drive.

"Uh, that's not necessary. We can get there."

But Natalie was already writing the address down. "Here you go. Thank you for the offer. This will save us some gas."

"It's not your case. You already have your case."

"What are you saying, Mr. Monk? Two world-class detectives are better than one. He'll help us find Tommy faster."

"Well, I guess I could use another pair of eyes. The Captain would probably be impressed." Then he went up to Sherlock and looked him in the eye. "But you need to remember, you're on my turf now. You're playing my game. I'm not playing yours."

Sherlock leaned closer. "Your move," he said softly.

"Thank you." Monk stood and took their cups, even though John wasn't finished, and took them to the kitchen.

"Wait, what about me? What should I do?" Ambrose asked anxiously.

"Relax, Ambrose. I'm sure your brother's house is your house."

"Excuse me? NO!" Monk yelled. "I know what he does in his house. I'm not going to have him stacking newspaper and old mail all over the place."

"I didn't mean that," Natalie said. "Mr. Monk, he needs a place to feel safe."

"And it's not here!" Sherlock interrupted. "Miss Teeger, with all due respect, that's a ridiculous suggestion. If Moriarty knows where Ambrose Monk lives, he certainly knows where Adrian Monk lives. In fact, any acquaintance to him is off-limits."

"Excuse me?" Monk said. "It's my game, remember? That's the deal."

"Very well, but when you sign your brother's death certificate, don't say I didn't tell you so."

"You can defend yourself, can't you?" Natalie whispered.

"I've written many safety manuals for guns and tasers. I'll be OK," Ambrose nodded.

"Alright, come on, let's go," Monk said as he headed out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

The car ride was quiet and tense. Monk refused to make eye contact with Sherlock. John finally broke the silence as he gave Monk a friendly smile. "You flat was lovely. Very neat and organized. Nice . . . change of pace. I think you remember ours."

"Thank you, Doctor," Monk said softly. "I consider that high praise."

"I had no idea you had such good photography skills. Those were such nice pictures of Molly on your walls."

"That's Trudy!"

"Oh, your wife? She does favor her mother."

"Yes. Her photos are in the scrapbooks."

"So, how is Molly doing these days?"

"She's fine. She's in Tennessee right now, writing about some kind of hippie festival."

"It's Bonoroo," Natalie explained.

"Oh yes, I've heard of that," John said. "But I thought her expertise is movies."

"Yeah, someone's shooting a documentary on a family group," Monk said.

"Sons and Daughters," Natalie told him.

"Right, I've heard their music. You know they're not really a family group. They're just people playing together. They stole the title from a D. H. Lawrence novel."

"Yeah, I don't really care," Monk answered.

"And how are you, Natalie?"

"I'd say I'm doing pretty well."

"Oh yes, let me see!" She showed him her left hand which now had a sparkly ring on the ring finger. "It's beautiful. When's the big day?"

"December. We're waiting for Steve to go on leave around Christmas. Soon, I'll be Natalie Albright. You and Sherlock are invited, of course, if you'd want to make the trip."

"That's very kind of you."

"Hey, how did you know about her engagement?" Monk asked.

"I . . . got her email."

"Yeah, Mr. Monk, I sent the announcement to all my friends on a list," Natalie explained.

"Yes, _she _keeps in contact with us," Sherlock said, but then he shook his head and groaned.

"Problem?" Monk asked.

"Everything here is so . . . bright," he answered.

"You get used to it."

"Sure. You live with London fog and London rain and London darkness all your life, and you get used to it."

"Oh, here!" Natalie took a pair of sunglasses out of her purse. She nearly got a wipe as well, but she stopped. "Wait, you're not a germaphobe. These are Steve's. I think they'll help." She handed them up to him, and he put them on. "Better?"

"Loads. Thank you."

"Oh, good grief," John whispered as he got a glimpse of Sherlock in the rearview mirror.

"Hey, you know what?" Natalie said. "I just thought of a way I could pay you back for coming here."

"I told you that wasn't necessary, Miss Teeger," Sherlock answered.

"No, hear me out. Have you picked a place to stay yet? Because I have plenty of room at my house. I got a guest room since Julie is at her apartment, and the couch downstairs folds out."

"You certain of that, Natalie?" John said. "Two strange men in your house, what will Steven think?"

"I'll lock my door. It's official police business. Besides, you guys are gentlemen. I'm sure Steve will understand."

"Well, gentlemen, I don't know about that."

"Please. It's the least I can do. I won't charge you anything."

Monk groaned. "That's basically means I'm paying for it."

"Then we'll take it," Sherlock said.

"It's not like we could turn it down," John said. "It's quite rude to forsake another's hospitality, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked back at him and frowned.

"Oh, your glares have no power. The sunglasses, remember?"

"Eyes on the road, eyes on the road, EYES ON THE ROAD!" Monk yelled until Sherlock turned back around. "I had no idea you drove. We took cabs everywhere in England."

"I don't have a car. There's no place to put it, but I took driving lessons," he answered. "You don't have an excuse. Where's your car?"

"Well, Trudy and I had one, but I had a little trouble with this lessons. I have problems with right turns . . . and left turns. You know, turning, and uh, YIELDING!"

Sherlock yielded just in time. "Well, you have no problem being a backseat driver, do you?"

"Well, I can read the signs. Can you?"

That was obviously a rhetorical question, so Sherlock wouldn't dignify it with a response. "So, Tommy Grazer, your son, really?"

"No, not really. I adopted him for a day, day-and-a-half. It might as well have been a lifetime. He was part of a case I was doing." For the first time since they saw him on this trip, Monk smiled. "You should've seen him. In that little bit of time, he became just like me. I mean, he separated his food, he got upset when his pants legs were uneven, he helped cleaned up a stain, I just wish he was able to change his own diaper. If I had him for a little longer, he probably would've learned. I wanted to make it permanent, but it just wouldn't work. Oh, I hope the little guy's OK."

"Little guy?" Natalie said. "That was nine years ago. He'd be eleven by now."

"Oh, right."

"If we work fast, he'll be fine," Sherlock answered. "So, just what does an agoraphobic do to support himself? Does he have some sort of Internet scheme?"

"Ambrose writes instruction manuals for various appliances," Monk explained.

"Ah. I always pitied the poor souls that had to write those." Monk glared at him. "No, I didn't mean to be untoward. I just meant that they look so dull!" Monk wouldn't stop glaring. "I'm sure you remember I have a brother as well. They're all idiots. I'm sure he thinks the same of me."

"If you insult Ambrose, you insult me. You said last year I wasn't stupid, and I'm not."

"Of course not," Sherlock whispered.

Just about then, they reached police headquarters. Sherlock parked the car, and Monk got out. Almost instantly, he felt someone pat him on the shoulder and say, "Morning, Adrian." He didn't recognize the voice, so he looked over. It was him, the same man on the video, dressed in a police uniform. Monk looked straight into his brown eyes and his twisted grin.

"So, shall we go?" Sherlock said.

Monk turned toward him for a second, then he looked back to his side toward that stranger. He was gone. "Yeah. Come on." He led them toward the office, but he also started lagging behind. "I didn't see what I saw. I didn't see what I saw. I didn't see what I saw," he whispered under his breath. He had to admit, though, he still felt it. His shoulder still bore the feeling of that pat.

"Hey Monk," Stottlemeyer greeted.

"Captain," he nodded.

"Who's this?

"Sherlock Holmes, Inspector," Sherlock greeted.

"Actually, it's Captain. Captain Leland Stottlemeyer." He stretched out his hand, but then paused. "I'm sorry, you're not-?"

"No, Captain, it's fine." He shook Stottlemeyer's hand. John offered his hand as well.

"You must be John Watson. Pleasure to meet you both. Lestrade's a colleague of mine. I've heard . . . things."

"Good things?" John asked.

"Let's just . . . leave it at that. Monk, this way, please." He led them back to his office.

"So, there's some evidence you want me to inspect?" Monk asked.

"Well, that might be stretching the truth a little bit. You know, this is a missing person's case, and it's not really in our jurisdiction, but his foster parents, Mr. and Mrs. Murphy, specifically asked for you. They remembered you."

"They did? Do you think Tommy remembers me?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. Now, I know this case is a bit personal for you, and it gets difficult for you when cases are personal, so are you sure you wanna do this?"

"Oh yeah, I wanna help."

"I mean it, are you absolutely sure?"

"Hundred percent."

"And Sherlock can help out if it too personal," Natalie reminded him.

"Right, of course, and he's not the only one," Stottlemeyer said. "You know, this case is bringing all kinds of visitors. Guess who else showed up just an hour ago to help us out?"

"Agent Combs?"

"No, I hear he's on vacation." He opened the door.

Monk stopped in his tracks. "What year is this?"

Standing in front of the desk was a much more tan and not as skinny Randy Disher. "Monk! How the heck are you doin'?" he said as he came up and patted Monk's shoulder. That kinda cancelled out the other guy's pat.

"Great!"

"Really?"

Monk shook his head.

Randy laughed. "Oh man, you haven't changed a bit!"

"Neither have you, except for your age, and appearance."

"And rank, remember. I'm a captain now!"

"That's right! How's that going?"

"Pretty good. Lots of craziness on the shore."

"Which shore?"

"Jersey shore."

"I thought you worked in Summit."

"That's not far from the shore! Jersey's a costal state. There's pretty much shores everywhere.

"Alright. And how's Sharona?"

"You can ask her yourself. She's here."

"She's here?"

"Yeah, she's back in the interrogation room, and there's a big surprise. Come on, I'll show you."

But right as they walked out, they heard her voice saying rather suggestively, "Hello!" Monk saw her standing in the bullpen approaching Sherlock. "I don't think I've met you. New to the force?"

"Just visiting," he said softly.

"Anybody ever tell you that you look like Keano Reeves with those shades? I mean, if you straighten out that hair."

"No, I wouldn't say I've heard that." He took off his shades.

"Oh, wow! You can cut steel with those eyes."

"I think you have me confused with a comic book character."

She laughed. "I'm not confused about anything, honey."

"Sharona!" Randy said. He approached her. "You were supposed to wait in the back room."

"Oh, I was just going to use the restroom when I noticed the new guy and thought I'd meet him."

Randy crossed his arms.

"Relax, baby, I was just kidding around. You're still my man."

"I should hope so."

She looked past him. "Adrian! How are you? Long time, no see!" As she came closer to him, Monk noticed something he hadn't seen before.

"Sharona, you're as big as a house!" he said.

She grinned. "Surprise!"

"Little Disher's on the way," Randy said.

"And we already talked about it. Boy or girl, we're gonna name the kid Adrian."

"Awwe, that's sweet!" Natalie said. "What if it's twins?"

"Oh, we haven't discussed that yet. I don't know." She looked at Sherlock again. "What's your name, big guy?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered.

"Sherlock! I like it."

"I don't," Randy said. "What kind of name is Sherlock?"

"Excuse me! We got a little thing called a missing person's investigation going on here!" Stottlemeyer yelled. "Everybody interested follow me to the crime scene."

Sherlock sighed. "At last."

"Let's move!" The captain walked out.

"Hey, Monk, can I talk to you for a minute?" Randy asked.

"OK," Monk nodded.

He followed Randy way back into an interrogation room. Randy locked the door and pushed the tape player out of the way. "OK, what I'm about to say is top secret. You can't tell Natalie, you can't tell your British friends, and you can't tell the captain. But most of all, you can't tell Sharona."

"So why are you telling me?"

"I gotta get somebody to look into this, somebody not as tied to the police." He lowered his voice. "It's not just because of this case that we came back here. Sharona's being stalked."

Monk was shocked. He wanted to react, but the words just wouldn't come. "Who is it, Trevor?"

"No, she doesn't know who he is, but he's been following her around, and somehow he knows her name. He's threatened to kill her. He says I won't be able to save her. That's why we came back here, trying to protect her a little more. We're both scared. I mean, with the little guy on the way, we definitely don't want anything to happen."

"What does he look like?"

"She says he's kinda short but still intimidating. He's got dark brown eyes, slick hair, always dressed in expensive suits. Sharona says he speaks with a kinda lilt so that it sounded like he was always taunting her. Hang on, I actually got a sketch." He reached into his jacket, pulled out his notepad, pulled out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. Monk jumped a bit when he saw the sketch. It was the same man on the video, the same man he saw outside the police station. "What is it, Monk? Do you know him?"

He blinked and shook it off. "I do, but you don't have to worry about him."

"We don't?"

"I mean, yeah, he can be dangerous, but he's not that dangerous. He talks a big game, but . . ."

"Well, that makes me feel a little better. Thanks, Monk."

Randy walked out. Monk had to admit, he felt a little guilty. If this really is a dangerous situation, did he give the right advice? In stalking cases, you have to assume the worst. But another part of his mind wondered what else could he tell him. After all, he couldn't say what Monk really thought—that the guy didn't exist at all.

* * *

They went down to the house of Hank and Lisa Murphy, Tommy's foster parents. It sounded rather standard—Tommy's room was on the first floor, and someone got in through his window and took him without turning on the security system or upsetting the dogs. Sherlock looked for evidence around the house, Randy and Stottlemeyer questioned and comforted the parents, while Monk investigated Tommy's room, and of course John and Natalie assisted their bosses. The glass on the window wasn't broken, but Monk could clearly see where it was jimmied open. He could also tell from the pillow and the state of the bed that there was a struggle, and he could faintly smell chloroform. But he found the most unusual clue when he approached the bookshelf.

"Would you look at that?" he said to himself. "Would you look at that?!"

"What is it?" Natalie said.

"_The Bobbsey Twins, The Boxcar Children, Encyclopedia Brown, The Hardy Boys. _This is all children's detective fiction. And look, it's in alphabetical and sequential order! And all the books are pushed in to the back of the shelf!" He choked back tears. "This is beautiful."

"Yeah," Mrs. Murphy said, "he loves mysteries. I'm not sure if he really wants to be a detective because he says he's not always good at solving them, but he likes at least trying to solve them. It's really helped his grades in school, especially in Social Studies. He plays 'Carmen Sandiego' on his computer all the time, helps him learn geography."

"Do you think he remembers me?"

"I don't know, but you certainly rubbed off on him."

"That's true," Mr. Murphy added. "He didn't want to become a Boy Scout because he thought nature was too dirty."

"I taught him that," Monk said humbly. He took a deep breath of pride, but then he suddenly let it go. "Hold it. This book seems out of place." It didn't have a title on its spine, and it was sticking out a little too far. He took out a pen and used it to push the book out. Monk looked at it and read the title aloud. "_Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead."_

Shortly after, the team reconvened in the living room. "Anybody got any ideas?" Stottlemeyer asked.

"Nine, so far," Sherlock answered.

"Only nine?" Monk said.

"Right, give me a minute, and for your sake, I'll make it an even ten."

"Monk!" Stottlemeyer scolded. He looked like he was about to say more, but then his cell phone rang. "Excuse me."

"Will this do it?" Monk showed it to the rest of the group the book.

"Rosencrantz and Guildenstern," Randy said as he wrote it in his little notebook. "Sounds like a message," Randy said. "Maybe a warning. Maybe we should start searching for them."

"Of course, because there's so many people named Rosencrantz and Guildenstern," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Well, it sounds Jewish. In fact, I know a few Rosencratzes."

"Rosencrantz and Guildenstern," Monk thought aloud. "Isn't that Shakespeare?"

"Stoppard," Sherlock answered.

"No, I'm pretty sure they're minor characters in _Hamlet._"

"They are, but _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead _is a modern play by Tom Stoppard."

"He's right," Natalie said. "Julie was in it last year. She played Ophelia, and I think she dated Guildenstern. It's a pretty tough play to understand. It doesn't belong in an eleven-year-old's reading room."

"Well, maybe he wants to get a head start on high school or college," Randy said. "He must be a pretty smart kid, looking into all these. Hey, maybe he thought it was a mystery!"

Sherlock looked at him. "Disher, are you kin to anyone in England?"

Randy, confused, shook his head. "I don't think so."

"You sure? Are you related to anyone surnamed Anderson?"

"Not to my knowledge. I mean, I have a cousin named Andy on my mother's side, but-"

"If I were you, I'd look a little further into it. You really remind me of him."

"It's not Tommy's," Monk explained. "He had a system from which he refused to deviate. That book was in the middle of his _Encyclopedia Brown _section, and it stuck out a quarter-inch too far. It doesn't fit his system. The kidnapper must have put it there to get our attention."

Sherlock patted Monk's head. "Good boy! You're learning. You deserve a treat."

"So, what does it mean?" Monk looking back at him.

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. Never saw the play."

"Then how did you know Tom Stoppard did it?"

"It's on the cover."

"Was he reading it?" John asked.

"What do you mean?" Monk said.

"Well, you know, it's not laying down flat, like a brand new book; it's creased a little in the spine. And I think a place has been marked."

Monk opened the book with his pen. It had been marked, but not with a traditional bookmark. "Oh great."

"What?" Natalie said.

"It's a receipt from Café Palmero."

"So?"

"Natalie, Café Palmero is owned by Salvatore Lucarelli, the West Coast Godfather."

"No way! Mitch and I used to go there all the time. They had such good pizza, real authentic. Good grief, I swear I had no idea we were supporting terrorism!"

"Hey, Italian shoes," John said.

"Pardon?" Monk said.

Sherlock went straight into his deduction delivery, "My initial deduction is that the boy was taken by at least two, perhaps three, men of uncommon weight and strength. Judging by the treads of their shoes and their avoidance of mud, these men all wore expensive shoes, perhaps Italian."

"So, you think the mob might be involved?" Monk said.

"I can question them," Randy said. "Lots of mob bosses on the shore. I know how to deal with them. You know, that's where _The Sopranos _takes place."

"In Summit?"

"No, in New Jersey."

Stottlemeyer came back into the room. "Monk, you're not gonna believe this. That was a caretaker from the Redwood Hill Nursing Home. We have another missing person. You're never gonna guess who it is."

Monk tried to guess, but he just shrugged. "I don't know. Nobody I know lives in a nursing home."

"You do now. It's Marge Johnson."

"Marge? But she lives in Seattle with her sister!"

"Something must've happened to her sister. We'll ask when we get there. Randy, you go question Tony Soprano and everybody."

"You mean Salvatore Lucarelli."

"Yeah, I was joking. Wasn't very funny."

"We'll keep an eye out for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern," Sherlock told Randy on the way out.

"You might be surprised!" he called after them. "There might just be a few Rosencrantzes and Guildensterns at the nursing home! Check the adjoining synagogue!"


	4. Chapter 4

"So, who's Marge, you're grandmother?" Sherlock asked as they drove to the next crime scene.

"You're not too far off," Natalie said.

"We met on the sidewalk, and we became very close. She said I reminded her of her son who passed away. She loved me unconditionally, and . . . then I accused her of being an accomplice in a murder. I really blew it."

"You can't rule anyone out," Sherlock answered.

"Well, of course, but she had nothing to do with it. Once I found out who really did, she forgave me, but then she moved away." Monk smiled a little. "She taught me it was fun to be a pirate."

"You had to learn that?"

Monk just shrugged.

"Have you kept in contact with her?"

"Well, sometimes I get Natalie to send her a postcard, and she sends me a letter at Christmas. It was a pretty incredible case. It involved an egg-eating robot."

"No kidding?"

"Yeah, the guy stole him from the Guinness World Record Museum to serve as his alibi as he robbed a jewelry store. Randy actually thought the robot had something to with it, that it became sentient."

"Sentient?" Sherlock laughed. "Incredible! There must be an Anderson in every precinct. It has to be an international phenomenon."

"Yes , I meant to ask you, who's Anderson?"

"An idiot. He's come up with all sorts of ridiculous ideas. You remember the woman in pink who scratched 'rache' into the floor? Anderson said it was the German word for revenge, as though an English woman would think in German with her last breath."

Monk stared at him. "Interesting," he said under his breath.

"What?"

Monk shook his head. "Look, lay off the kid. I know some of his ideas are a little on the bizarre side, but here's the thing—I always say try three theories until one works."

"Wouldn't it save time just to find the one that works?"

"You know things aren't always that simple! I've seen some really bizarre cases, some that turn out in ways no rational human being would devise. Randy's just trying out ideas, you know? And it's gotten him somewhere; he's a captain now, and he's the husband of my former assistant, and he's about to be a father."

"Oh, so insulting him insults you too? I can't give my opinion on anybody, can I?" He sighed in frustration. "You Americans are so sensitive."

"Well, you English people are cold and hollow inside."

"OK, gents, can we please forgo the stereotypes?" John said.

"Sorry, Doctor," Monk mumbled. Sherlock just grunted.

* * *

"I don't understand," Monk said to the nurse. "Marge told me that she moved to Seattle to live with her sister."

"Unfortunately, her sister died just a couple of years after moving there. Her surviving family members sent her here about a year ago," the nurse explained. "We're not exactly sure what happened. The security system never went off. Marge was very happy here; she just kept knitting scarves and sweater, watching court shows and _Dr. Phil, _and she loved playing Dominos with the other residents on Saturday night. We don't think she wandered off."

The hospital staff took the team to her room, and the first thing Monk noticed was a box fan at the foot of her bed, which was on full blast. He knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate with that on because it's noisy and it spreads germs everywhere, so he gestured for Natalie to turn it off. Once she got the message and followed his instructions, he asked the nurse, "Were there problems with the air conditioning last night? 'Cause there certainly aren't now."

"Yeah, it is kinda chilly in here," Natalie said rubbing her arms.

"The fan was at Marge's request," the nurse answered. "The noise helps her sleep. She usually asks for a bottle of water by her bed because the fan dries her mouth."

Monk walked around the bed and looked at the insulated, covered cup. He noticed a ring of water on the edge and lipstick on the edge. "She drank from it sometime last night." He picked it up. "It's still pretty full, she probably just took a si—" He heard something rattle inside. He shook it a few times to make sure. "Something's in here." He very carefully took off the top. "Tweezers?"

"I got some," John said and handed them to him.

Monk very carefully pulled out a tiny circular object. "It looks like a pearl. Was this in here?"

"No. We only put in some ice," the nurse answered.

"Wait, a pearl. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern . . . it's another Shakespeare reference. In _Hamlet,_ Queen Gertrude dies when she drinks from a cup of wine with a poisoned pearl in it." He looked at Sherlock. "Unless there's another play about Gertrude."

"Not to my knowledge," he answered.

"Does that mean she's dead?" Natalie asked.

"She might be," Monk said. "We'll know when we test this."

"I'll do that. Hand it over," Sherlock said.

"Uh, Sherlock, we don't have access to Bart's," John said.

"I packed my microscope. I was planning for something like this."

"Why don't we leave this to the experts?" Monk said.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock answered, crossing his arms.

"Monk, let him take a sample of the water for testing," Stottlemeyer said. Monk pressed his lips together, but he handed the cup to Sherlock. "I apologize. Sometimes he can act a little juvenile."

"I'd know nothing about that, Captain." But as he got some water into a dropper, he mumbled under his breath, "I'll show _you _who's the expert."

"Hang on." Monk found something just underneath the bed. He got out his pen and lifted a piece of yarn. "I think she left this to me."

"A scarlet thread," Sherlock said. "Are you sure? It's like a trail of blood."

"Well, she knits. She knitted a scarf for me. She knows I'll notice something like this." It led outside the door. Monk got up and followed where it led. The others followed him, but then Monk stopped in his tracks.

"What's the matter?" Natalie whispered.

He pointed. "Spider, spider, spider." There was a spider weaving a web in the corner of the window.

Sherlock came forward and took a closer look. "That's just a common American house spider, _Parasteatoda tepidariorum_. It's non-venomous."

"Yes, but it can still jump on you, crawl on you, build a web on you, bite you, and just because it's not venomous doesn't mean it won't hurt! KILL IT, KILL IT, KILL IT!"

"Relax. I'll take care of it." He slowly approached the window and put his hand on the sill. "Hey, love. Come here. Come on, I'm not gonna hurt you." The spider slowly started crawling down from its web. "That's it. There's a beauty. Good girl."

Monk watched as the spider crawled closer to Sherlock's hand. "What are you waiting for? Get it!"

"I know what I'm doing!" He kept encouraging the spider until it crawled onto his palm. "There's a love. Now, build your house elsewhere, alright?" He opened the window, flicked the spider off, and shut it again. He turned to Monk and shrugged.

"Get him a wipe, quick!" he said to Natalie. She got one out and handed it to him.

"Well, I see you haven't taken my advice. Are you even looking for an immune system?"

Monk glared at him. "I need some air." He walked out the nearest door and took a couple deep breaths. He then heard a couple backs and looked up. He saw on the sidewalk across the street a very familiar looking dog. "Shelby?" He walked a couple steps closer, wondering what his dog was doing out here. And then he noticed someone was walking him, in jeans and a sweatshirt. But then the walker looked across the street and waved. It was the same man from the video. "Hey! What are you doing with my dog?" But the walker turned away. "HEY!"

"Mr. Monk, what's the matter?" Natalie asked as she came out and joined him.

"I thought I just saw—" But as he pointed to the sidewalk, no one was there.

"Are you OK?"

"I don't know." He went back inside and found Sherlock and John.

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Ah, so you finally decided to—"

But Monk tapped John's shoulder. "Doctor, can I see you for a minute?"

"Uh, sure," John answered uncertainly. They walked over to an unoccupied room in an adjacent hallway. Monk closed the door. "So, what can I do for you, Mr. Mon-?!"

John was taken aback because Monk did something completely out of character for him—he pinned the doctor's shoulder to the wall. "Listen to me. I want to believe that you are an honest man. After all, you're a doctor."

"Yes, of course. I want to believe that I am that, too—honest, I mean."

"You wouldn't lie to me."

"No, of course not."

"Alright. What's your name?"

John was confused by this. "John. John . . . Watson. You know that."

Monk looked down for a moment and sighed, but then he looked back up. "OK. I'm willing to believe that. Now," he nodded toward the other room, "what's your friend's name?"

John really couldn't believe Monk didn't know that. "Sherlock Holmes."

"No, really, what's his name?"

"Sherlock Hol—!"

"NO!" Monk shook his head.

"Look, what do you want me to say? Lord Voldemort? Rumpelstiltskin? Kahn?"

"Stop making this a game!" Monk said with a look of anguish all over his face. "I want you to tell me the truth."

John looked him dead in the eye. "His name is Sherlock Holmes. He's my friend."

Monk let him go, then he buried his face in his hands and sat down on the ground. He grabbed his head and started rocking back and forth. To John, he looked a lot like an older Sherlock; his friend had taken that posture many times when he was distress.

"Are you OK?"

"Forget it," Monk answered from behind his hands. "Just go."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Go."

John, not knowing what else to do, started to walk away. "Wait!"

John stopped and turned around.

"Doctor, one more thing," Monk said, revealing his troubled face once more. "Is it me?" he said in a near whisper.

"I don't understand," John said.

Monk shook his head. "Never mind." He turned away and mumbled. "Of course it's me. It's always me."

John went out and met Natalie in the foyer. "What was that about?" she asked.

"I think you're right," he answered. "He is upset with Sherlock, and I think I know why."


	5. Chapter 5

They reconvened at headquarters around the end of the day to discuss what they learned. Randy said the mob had an airtight alibi, but what was more—

"They remember you, Monk. Lucarelli said they haven't gone near you or anyone associated with you for years."

"Why?"

"Because you solved that case for them. Lucarelli said they never forget anyone who does them a favor. Plus, I think he respects you. I never heard any mob bosses from the shore talk in such glowing terms about anybody."

Sherlock talked in more detail about what he found, and Stottlemeyer had to tell him five times to "slow his roll." Randy got a hand cramp writing it all down in his little notebook. It was mostly technical stuff, the samples he collected from footprints, and the inconsistencies he noted in the security systems. Monk didn't have much to add beyond what he already told them. Both of them still had an unanswered question—where were they taken. Marge's yarn was the biggest clue to that, but it ended in the parking lot. Both detectives explained, without giving too many details, that they knew who took them and why, though Sherlock spoke more on that subject. They didn't mention the video yet. Monk was busy pondering another question. He didn't say anything about his sightings of the kidnapper because he still wasn't sure if they were real.

Sherlock drove everyone back to Monk's place, and they were all so tired that they didn't say anything. But once they got out of the car, John stopped Sherlock and pulled him aside. "You have to talk to him."

"I've been trying to talk to him all day, John. He doesn't care. He suddenly thinks I'm not an expert."

"Sherlock, I think he believes Moriarty's lie."

"No, he wouldn't."

"Well, think about it. He didn't know the full story when he met you, so when he gets home, he does a little more research on the Reichenbach Hero, or he gets Natalie to do it. Then he starts finding stories that were widely circulated in the papers that you were a fraud that hired Moriarty to stage all the crimes. Suddenly, he doesn't trust you anymore."

"It can't be that! Don't you remember last year? He went in front of all those reporters and said he believed I was a real detective and a, what were the words he used, a true adventurer."

"Well, like I said, he didn't know much about you. When the 'truth' came out, it was too much to bear. Sherlock, he's torn up about this. That time he pulled me aside, he demanded I tell him your name, and it broke his world when I tell him. The man is in agony. I don't completely understand why. I guess shattering the trust you had in someone who's just like you is excruciating. You have to tell him, explain to him that it's not true. Tell him it's a lie, show him the truth, in case he's forgotten."

"He doesn't forget."

"Then try to bring back that memory. Alright, I'm going to get a ride back to Natalie, and first thing I'll pull out that bed in her sofa, and I think I'll fall asleep before I hit the pillow because I am dead on my feet, but you need to talk to Mr. Monk first. Get this settled. Understood?"

"Yes, of course."

So Sherlock went into the house, but he heard Monk on the phone. "Hello, Teresa? I know, I don't want to bother you too long. I just called to ask, is Shelby OK? . . . Good, glad to hear. How about her little ones, Exhibit A, B, C, D? . . . No, I was just thinking about them . . . Good. I thought—did you get a new dog walker?"

Sherlock had no idea how long a conversation like this would go, so he stood in Monk's study and stared at his bookcases. Ambrose came in. "Am I interrupting something?"

Sherlock glanced at him. "You _weren't._"

Ambrose chuckled. "I can't believe this. I'm starting to forget this isn't my house."

"You're certainly much more chipper."

"Natalie called Adrian's psychiatrist, Dr. Bell, to talk to me. It helped a lot. He helped me to understand that you wouldn't have taken me out of my house without a good reason." He sat down on the chair and continued watching him. "I'm still not sure who you are or how you know my brother. He's never been abroad, certainly not to London."

"He did last year. Didn't he tell you?"

"No, but that's alright. It's just like my brother. He's always been unpredictable. He's the wild one of the family."

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from laughing at that. "Ha!"

"It's true! You wouldn't believe the hijinks he's gotten into. When he was fifteen, he'd go to the store and buy things all by himself, usually unannounced. And then at twenty-one, he just up and got a job, and then he went to college, and then he went on dates _with women_!"

"Your surname is really starting to make sense."

"But I shouldn't speak too ill of my brother. He saved my life, more than once. He's a good brother. He's a good man."

"Have you ever known him to . . . lose touch with someone with whom he used to get along?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you may have noticed, we haven't really gotten along this trip, which I don't really understand because he was fine working with me in London. I'm trying to figure out why."

"You know, actually, I have known someone like this."

"Who?"

"Me. After Trudy died, we stopped talking. I started it, but when we met for the first time after, he was very detached. He was unwilling to get along, and I didn't understand why until he told me that I wasn't there for him when his wife died. Then I told him, the reason I stopped talking was because I felt responsible."

"How's that?"

"About fifteen-and-a-half years ago, I called Adrian's house, and Trudy answered. I told her I was sick and asked her to buy some cough syrup. She said she'd be happy to. I never got that medicine because she pulled into a parking garage after that errand, and her car blew up. I thought it was because I asked her to do that favor that she died, and if Adrian knew he'd hate me forever. But actually, he forgave me. I never knew he'd do that until I told him, and he never knew that I was keeping my distance because I felt guilty. He thought I didn't care. So maybe, you need to stop trying to figure it out. Take off your detective hat and just talk to him."

"It's not as fun."

"No, but it leads to clearer answers." Ambrose stood and yawned. "Well, goodnight sir." He turned to leave. "By the way, your posture is perfect."

"Thank you."

"How'd you manage that?"

"A childhood of torture."

Ambrose shook his head. "No, that's not it." He went to another room.

"Thank you so much," Monk said. "Tell Anne Marie I said hi, and give Shelby a treat for me. Goodnight." He hung up the phone, then looked over and saw Sherlock just standing in the study. "What are you doing?" Monk asked.

"You can learn a lot about someone from his choice of literature," Sherlock answered.

"I agree. I recognized your Orwellian references."

"Who doesn't love a good dystopia even now and again? You know, for someone who is afraid of everything, you read a lot of Stephen King."

"Oh, those are Trudy's. She said she liked his writing style."

He looked down. "_The Perfect Murder _by Hy Conrad. Never heard of it."

"It's a piece of cake."

"No surprises there. Is the author kin to Joseph Conrad?"

"I don't know."

"I did enjoy _The Secret Agent._"

"_Heart of Darkness._"

"Yes, that's another good one. What's this? No author on this one, _It's For You._" He pulled it out of the bookshelf, but it wasn't a book. It was a narrow box containing a cell phone. Sherlock turned it over. "Internet, email, GPS, video camera, scanner, voice recognition, Mr. Monk! This is a smart phone!"

"So it is," he said not meeting Sherlock's glare.

"You told me you looked into cell phones, and they were too expensive."

"That was true. Molly gave it to me for Christmas."

Sherlock found a card behind a flap on the front of the box. He read it aloud. "Dear Adrian, Use this to your heart's content. I will take care of the bill. Merry Christmas, Molly. P.S. Molly Hooper says hi."

"Yeah, Molly said they stay in contact through the Internet. She told me something about a book of faces."

"All this time, you _could_ have called me, you _could _have Skyped, we _could _have traded cases, but you _chose _no to! You didn't even send me a letter. Even if you are so petrified of new technology, you could've at least send me snail mail! So answer me this—why are you upset with me?"

Monk sighed and looked at him. "If you must know, I don't believe you are who you say you are. It isn't possible."

"So, John was right. You researched me, found that story that I'm a fraud, that I created Moriarty, forged all the cases so I could appear to solve them. You of all people—last year you stood up for me!"

Monk held up his hand, stopping him. "It has nothing to do with that." Monk went behind him and pulled down a very thick book from the top shelf. "It has everything to do with THIS!" He practically threw it at Sherlock.

He couldn't believe what he saw, a book he had never heard of before. He read the title off the front cover. "_The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes _by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."

"According to that book, you're about a hundred fifty years old, and FICTIONAL!"

He was a bit shaken by this, but he wouldn't show it. "So I share the name of a nineteenth century literary character. Many people in London do; it's a very literary town. Do you know how many Brits have the same name as characters in Charles Dickens novels? Actually, I know an American—DAVID COPPERFIELD!"

"It's not just the name! Everything's in here—Dr. John Watson, 221B Baker Street, Lestrade, your brother Mycroft, Professor James Moriarty, Mrs. Hudson, Irene Adler, even some of the cases you told me that time are very similar to what's in here! I remembered just as I was leaving London last year, my father used to read me these stories. It was my first exposure to mysteries. I was pretty good at solving them, too, just a few pages in."

Sherlock was already looking through the book, still unsure how to react. "Still, it's . . . it's a book. It's just a book. Why take it out on me?"

"You don't understand. It's like I always say, it's a gift and a curse. This is the curse part. I'm . . . psychologically delicate. I always have been, but it became worse after Trudy died. This is where all the fears come from. This is why I don't always know what to do around people. But worst of all, when I get stressed or overwhelmed, my mind takes on a life of its own. For example, there was one time I was buried alive in a casket, and to keep me from panicking, my mind made me relive one of my favorite memories with Trudy. I think when I went to London, I was more overwhelmed than I thought, with going to another place and losing Molly, so it created an environment that was familiar to me. I heard what I wanted to hear, saw what I wanted to see."

"Oh, so you wanted to be tortured by Moriarty?"

"Don't interrupt. That's why everything felt familiar because it was. As far as I was concerned, I mentally walked the London streets with Sherlock Holmes, the _real _one, so many times I had the city memorized, just like he did. I don't know how you reacted, but you probably just played along. Everyone did. But now, you're in the States, my home, and you're keeping this . . . this fantasy alive."

"You're the one who invited me!"

"That was back when I thought I knew who you were."

"Well, why don't you just ask Miss Teeger? Or Miss Evans? Or John? They know-"

"I can't trust what they say. I already tried John. He sticking to your story. Now, I'm already starting to get overwhelmed. I'm seeing things that aren't there. I keep seeing that man. This afternoon, I saw him walking my dog."

"You have a dog?"

"_Had_, long story."

"Don't you understand? Don't you see? It's not you, it's him. Moriarty's trying to make you think you're—"

"IT'S NOT MORIARTY! MORIARTY ISN'T REAL; HE DOESN'T EXIST! Even if he did, he'd be dead. It just wouldn't be possible! SO IT'S NOT HIM, IT'S YOU! You're the one who tells me he's still out there."

"You're mad, Adrian."

"Yes, I'm . . . furious."

"No, I mean, you're insane! You know he exists. You know what he did to Molly, to you, to me. You know what he has little Tommy and old Marge right now because he told you. How can you say he doesn't exist?"

"It's all a façade, a dream. I can't be sure of it all. You know, you can just end this insanity now. Just tell me who you are."

"I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"No, really."

"Sherl—"

"THIS ISN'T FUNNY!"

"I AM WHO I AM! I CANNOT BE ANYONE ELSE! IF YOU CAN'T SEE THAT, IT'S NOT MY FAULT!"

Monk looked emotionally wrung out and flopped down in a chair. Sherlock was just seething. Neither one of them felt angrier in their whole life. They couldn't speak to each other. Monk closed his eyes. Finally, Monk spoke again. "I don't believe you're a fraud. I believe you are a detective, in fact a really good one. I still stand by what I said at the press conference a year ago. Somehow, you helped me find Molly. You helped me bring her back safe and sound. For that, I'm always going to be in your debt. But I've come so far ever since I first found her. Those psychotic breaks hardly ever happen anymore. I'm almost . . . normal. I can't afford to go backwards now."

Sherlock turned away from him and said very quietly, "So, in your eyes, I'm not a fraud. I'm an imposter."

"That's a good way of putting it, actually."

"You're saying you can't work with me."

"No, I'm saying deal with the truth from now on."

But Sherlock said even quieter in very hurt tone, "You won't believe the truth."

"Then just . . . deal with the evidence. Let's just get through this case with the concrete evidence we find, no real personal involvement, like we're police partners or something."

Sherlock nodded. "I can do that." He turned back to Monk and held up the book. "Might I borrow this?"

Monk threw up his hands. "You can have it. It's yours. It's . . . got your name on it."

"You see, when you say that, you're saying you do believe—" But then he looked closer at Monk, who was frowning and crossing his arms and understood he was being sarcastic. "Well-played, Mr. Monk," he said coldly. "Goodnight." He walked out the door and nearly slammed it on the way out.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was still tremendously upset while driving. He couldn't decide if he was angry or hurt or both at the same time, but he didn't like it. He kept trying to push tears back. He finally stopped and pulled over just to breathe heavily until he was calm. He looked in the driver's seat where he put the book. "It can't be my life," he thought aloud.

Eventually, he made it to Natalie's house, but he was still upset. He came in and saw John sleeping on the couch. After Sherlock shut the door, John sat up a little. "Hey, Sherlock," he said half-asleep. "Did you talk to him?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"How did it go? What did he say?"

"He said, 'Shut up and sleep,' that's what!"

"OK," John said as he fell back down on the bed.

Sherlock found the unoccupied room, got in his dress robe, and reclined on the bed, but he didn't try to go to sleep. He got out the book and just started flipping through it, browsing its contents. The titles of the story were often nearly, sometimes exactly, identical to John's blog entries. Sherlock did see a lot of people he knew in his life, even people who he met briefly in some of his cases, but there were also people he knew that weren't in the book, like Molly, Donovan, and Anderson. There were some things that he said. This Sherlock complained that people "see" and not "observe." On the other hand, he said things Sherlock never said in his life. He didn't have a Homeless Network; he had the Baker Street Irregulars, which just struck Sherlock as insensitive. And obviously, this Sherlock never picked up a cell phone or went on the Internet. Still, when he went through some of the details of the stories, it was just uncanny. Disturbing. Probably what was worst was that it was almost . . . enjoyable. Sherlock ended up slamming the book and throwing it across the room.

He decided he wanted to play his violin, but then he thought the other Sherlock played the violin. So he decided he'd play something on the violin the other would've never played. He found on the bedside table some sheet music written for piano. He didn't recognize the tune, but as he heard the melody play in his head, it sounded bittersweet, and that really illustrated his feelings. He usually liked to look out the window when he played, but Julie's room didn't have enough of a good view, so he went down to the dining room. He played the song all the way through.

Then he heard applause. He turned around and saw Natalie sitting at the table, who was also brushing away tears. "You so need to come to my wedding. Julie's learning to play that on the piano; it would sound so lovely as a duet."

"So much for locking your door," Sherlock said.

"Hey, I'm fully dressed. It's about time for me to call Steven. Coffee?"

"No, thank you."

"Are you OK? Is there something you wanna talk about?"

"Not really."

"Hey, I'm not a detective, but I am a mother, and I can tell when people are upset."

"Interesting. Molly Hooper had the same type of intuition, and she's not a mother.

"Right. Of course, that big thump coming from your room and you playing the theme from _Up _on your violin in the wee hours of the morning are dead giveaways."

"_Up_? That's a stupid name for a film. Is it about lifts? Is the sequel called _Down_?"

John came into the dining room yawning. "Sherlock, I know you're running on the adrenaline of this case jumpstarting the rocket engine in your head, but you really need to get some sleep. You can't tell me you're not jetlagged."

"Why sleep? Why dream? What's the point when you're already a dream of someone who lived a hundred years before you?"

"Come again?"

Sherlock sighed and sat down. He looked at Natalie. "Your employer believes that I am a fictitious, nineteenth-century, literary character. Did you not know this?"

She shook her head. "No, Mr. Monk hasn't really talked much about it. I mean, I knew about the first Sherlock Holmes."

He looked offended at her. "You did?!"

"Well, yeah. I've even compared Mr. Monk to him many times. I mean, how can you not? He's synonymous with detective work."

"Well, now he doesn't want to work with me because he doesn't think I'm real. What do you do with that?"

John shrugged. "You could tell him that some philosophers believe that nothing is real, that we're all just walking around in a dream, waiting to wake up. Such philosophers may argue that we're all fictional characters, every one of us."

"Do you really think this is the field for a philosophical debate, John? Besides, I've seen _The Matrix._"

"Why don't you just give him a simple explanation?" Natalie said.

"I'm all ears, Miss Teeger."

"You . . . changed your name." She gave him a look that said that should've been obvious.

"He's not going to fall for that."

"Well, it's what I always believed. I mean, it happens. Cassius Clay became Muhammad Ali when he got really good. You don't think magician David Copperfield was born with that name. You see all sorts of people in the business change their name: authors, music artists, actors. So it's perfect sense that a detective would—"

Sherlock slammed the table and looked straight at her. "Tom Jones. Why didn't I think of this sooner?"

"No, that's not how it works. People don't usually change to something that sounds so ordinary."

"But he did. Tom Jones is not just the stage name of a 1960s popular singer. It's also the name of a literary character."

"No kidding. I've never heard of him. What's he in?"

"_Tom Jones_ by Henry Fielding! It's one of the first British novels in history. It's long, over seven hundred pages and so dry. I was required to read it in the university, longest twelve hours of my life."

"OK, so Moriarty changes Monk's ringtone to another artist in a similar situation to yours," John said. "What does it mean?"

"It means, he knows."

"How?" Natalie asked.

"It's Moriarty, Miss Teeger! He makes it his business to know everything!"

"I'm just saying, Mr. Monk didn't even tell me."

"It doesn't matter. He's able to figure things out." He suddenly looked very intently at her. "I want you to listen, because he will not listen to me, he will not believe me. I've played this same game with Moriarty before. He called it 'The Final Problem.' Now, it's 'The Best Part,' but it will end up the same. It is not going to end well. When I first met him, Moriarty said to me, 'If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you.'"

"So, that's what that pig meant!"

"Exactly, and that's what the result will be. I told him I didn't have a heart, but with your employer it's different. It's obvious that he's cared about various people in his cases. In Moriarty's mind, that makes Adrian Monk easier to destroy. Blood will be spilled, and Moriarty will not stop until Mr. Monk is eliminated. With me, he shattered my credibility with a story that most people would believe. He knows that this isn't so easy with Mr. Monk, who basically threw down the gauntlet last year. I believe Moriarty's going to try to destroy him mentally because that's where his vulnerability lies."

"So, what do you want me to do?"

"Miss Teeger," Sherlock took a deep breath and looked in her eyes, "Natalie, this is very important. Never leave him alone, not for any reason. If you receive word that your fiancé has been killed in action, weep but do not leave your employer's side. The moment he's left alone is when Moriarty will strike."

"Alright, I won't."

"Swear to me!"

"OK, I swear on Mitch's grave that I will not leave Mr. Monk." Sherlock nodded. "Alright, if you don't mind, I need some privacy. I'm going back to my room."

"Of course," John nodded.

"One more thing, Miss Teeger," Sherlock said as she was leaving the kitchen. She turned back and looked at him. "Whatever Moriarty wants to tell him . . . is a lie."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that." She left.

"What did you mean he wouldn't fall for that, if you told him you just changed your name?" John asked.

"Because it's not just my name. It's just about everything else," Sherlock answered. "I mean, how would you feel if it was your life recorded in a book?"

"Well . . . I think it depends on the book."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think I'd mind as much if it was a book I enjoyed. One with a lot of adventure with memorable characters and happy endings, something like _The Hobbit _or _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. _I don't think I'd really be happy in that _Tom Jones _book you talked about. But you know what they say, we make our own story. We determine what goes on, and we write the endings. You know, we are the masters of our destiny, the authors of our fate. Nobody else can do that, no matter when they lived. Do you know what I think Moriarty's saying to us? I think he's saying we are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Yeah, it was something I meant to say when I left you. In Shakespeare's play, there were sent by the king to learn why Hamlet was mad. That's what we have to do."

"So it is a threat?"

"It might be. There's probably a reason why he left Stoppard's play instead of Shakespeare's. But you remember how it turned out. Hamlet reveals to him that he's not really mad, so things aren't what they seem." He stood up and yawned. "Well, I'm going back to sleep. And you should too!"

But Sherlock sat there for a while and plucked at the violin strings. "A book I enjoyed," he mumbled. He went back to his room, but he still didn't sleep.

* * *

Monk was having a tough night. He slept, but he had a nightmare. He dreamed he walked up on a platform. Randy, dressed in an outfit that seemed a bit too lavish for him, came up to Monk and offered him a silk pillow that had two swords with thin blades lying on it. As Monk was staring at it wondering why, someone else took one of the blades. It was the imposter and he looked like he was ready to kill. Monk hesitantly took the other blade. He looked to the side and saw two thrones, sitting on one was Sharona, and sitting on the other was the kidnapper, grinning at him. Monk knew what this was, _Hamlet_'s final scene.

The "king" gestured for them to begin, and Monk's opponent started striking. Monk didn't know anything about fencing, so he just did his best to defend himself. It occurred to him that he wasn't sure if he was Hamlet or Laertes. For some reason, no one was saying the lines. Monk finally decided that he was Hamlet because he was melancholy enough, and his opponent looked like he was determined not to lose. One time, he saw Sharona lift a goblet to them and start to drink it, and Monk turned to her to get her to stop (it was either because he knew it was poisoned or because she was pregnant). It was at that moment his opponent struck him. Monk turned around, and his opponent gave him a daring look. He pointed his blade at Monk's chest, but it wasn't the sword. It was his violin box. Monk attempted to fight back, and throughout the dream he just kept trying to keep the fight going because he knew as soon as it was over, everyone was going to die. The only sound he recalled hearing was the "king" laughing at both of them.

He woke up to the phone ringing. "Oh, thank goodness," he thought aloud. He answered, "Hello?"

* * *

"Hey, Honey," Natalie greeted as her call on Skype was answered.

"Hey, Mom," Julie answered. "What's up?"

"Sweetie, you remember when I went to England last year?"

"Yeah, I still have that Big Ben paperweight you got me."

"Well, the guys I went to see are here. They're here to help Mr. Monk, and they wanna ask you a couple questions."

"OK." John and Sherlock sat in front of the computer, and she couldn't stop giggling. "Oh good grief, I'm not even wearing makeup."

"You look fine," John assured her. Natalie's phone rang, and she excused herself.

"Miss Teeger, it's our understanding that you preformed in the play _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead," _Sherlock said.

"Yeah, I did," she nodded.

"Would you tell us a little about the play, please?"

"There's not much to tell, really. It's just the story of _Hamlet _from a different point of view."

"There has to be more to it than that," John said.

"Well . . . there is, but you kinda have to read between the lines."

"In what way?" Sherlock said.

"Well, you know, the play kinda assumes that the people who come to see it already know the story of _Hamlet_, and they know that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern will be executed in Hamlet's place. I mean, even if they didn't, it's in the title. So the audience already goes in knowing what's gonna happen, sorta like _Titanic, _I guess. But the play gets you invested in these characters. You find out they're smart, they're witty, they're interesting people, but no matter how much you like them, Shakespeare has already decided they're gonna die. It's their fate, and there's nothing they can do to get out of it. 'Cause you know, in the end, they're just characters."

Sherlock looked at John. That wasn't quite what he wanted to hear, but they were both right. Moriarty was saying they were Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and it was a threat.

"You know, you kinda look like the guy who played Rosencrantz. He was British too."

Sherlock glared. "What did he look like?"

"Black hair, tall, kinda a big nose. I think his name was Ryan-something. I wanted to know him better, but he kept his distance."

Natalie suddenly came back in. "OK, Sweetie, thank you so much. We gotta go, but we'll talk later, OK?"

"Sure, Mom."

"Thanks, love you!" Natalie blew some kisses into the screen and then shut it. "That was the captain. He has a case involving another person who Adrian knows well." She took a deep breath. "This time, she's dead."

"Oh no," John whispered.

She wrote the address down. "Look, I'll go pick up Mr. Monk. Why don't you meet us there? I think it's not a good idea for us all to be together in the same car right now while everybody's sorting this out."

She started heading out the door, but John sat there and patted his friend's shoulder. "It's a lie, right? You master your destiny."


	7. Chapter 7

Note: The foreign language here may not be entirely accurate because I do not have access to all the special characters.

Everyone met up at the Zemenian district. Sherlock was already questioning people in mourning downstairs, or something like that.

"Excuse me, sir," Sherlock said to a fiddler playing a sad song. "You're off-key. You're on B flat, it's supposed to be A minor. It's a dirge, right? A _lament_?" The fiddler just rolled his eyes and played elsewhere.

Monk came up to him. "Morning," he said, barely making eye contact.

"Morning," Sherlock answered. "'Sup?" Monk gave him a bizarre look. "I was given to understand that's a typical American greeting. Am I wrong?"

"Sup? I never heard of it."

"So, who's this woman?" John asked.

"Leyla Zlatovitch. She was in charge at the refugee center. She helped a lot of people get a new start in a new country."

"That explains all the mourners," Sherlock said. "Doesn't explain the poor violin playing."

"Natalie said you were in love with her," John said.

"You?!"

Monk shrugged. "It was a brief infatuation. It broke off right after I got her mother arrested for killing a mass-murderer."

"That was a mistake."

"Yeah, I know that now. I even wonder if I really was infatuated with her. I was just caught up in the feeling that she was innocent when all the evidence was piling up against her. You know there's really only one woman I loved." He pointed at his wedding band.

"One woman too many, in my opinion," Sherlock mumbled.

"Let's just look at the body!"

They took up a man who knew some English up to her apartment. "She should not be dead," he told her. "She was just going through the _choroby._"

"_Choroby?"_ Monk asked. "What's _choroby_?"

"Uh, you know," the man said. "Achoo! Achoo!" Then he fake coughed.

"She was sick?" Monk glimpsed into her bedroom, where her body lay lifeless, and saw a wastebasket full of used tissues. Then backed away and started going for the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Natalie asked.

"To see if the captain has a haz-mat suit!"

"Oh, Mr. Monk, it's probably just a cold! It's not gonna kill you!"

"No, wait, it's not even that," John said. "Hey, Mr. Monk," he called down. "She's not sick of anything catching. I recognize these medications. They're prescription strength anti-histamines. She had allergies!"

"She doesn't have allergies."

"Well, how do you know? You only knew her for a brief time, and sometimes the body never adjusts to another climate. And the way this fellow talking about it, it sounds like a regularly occurring thing. She just had a bout with seasonal allergies! So, it's perfectly alright to come up."

"Impressive," Sherlock said.

"I guess I'm allowed to be, once in a decade. It could be a stroke or a heart attack." He looked at the foreigner. "Did she eat right, take good care of herself?"

He nodded. "Yes, yes, eat very good, walk everywhere every day, drink water and wine. Leyla took care of her so she can take care of people she loved."

"So she had to have been poisoned," Randy said. "I remember her case. We all thought she killed that man who killed most of her family, the Butcher. Maybe some of her followers poisoned her food."

"Why would they do that?" Monk asked. "It was her mother who killed him."

"To send a message. That's what the mob does on the shore."

"Randy, I think if they wanted to send a message, they would've burned the whole apartment down."

"Oh, yeah, I didn't think of that. Well, wait, you told about that place she took you to eat. Maybe she got extreme food poisoning."

"Are you sure you're not related to Anderson?" Sherlock asked.

"You know what? I'll look it up on family_ tonight." Monk, meanwhile looked at Sherlock disapprovingly.

Sherlock picked up another bottle by Leyla's bedside table. "But this isn't an anti-histamine." He examined it closely in the light. "Oy!" he called to the foreigner and snapped his fingers. When he approached Sherlock, he asked, "_Miala klopoty z jej uszy?" _and pointed to his ears.

The man nodded. "_Tak. Jej uszy bola. Lekarz dal jej medcyna."_

"_Dziekujemy," _Sherlock nodded.

"What was that?" Monk said, stunned.

"Polish. The official languages of Zemenia are Russian and Polish. I have a working knowledge of both, but I'm better with Polish."

"What did he say?" Natalie asked.

"He said her ears hurt, and the doctor prescribed ear medicine. I think her seasonal allergies led to an ear infection."

"But you can't die from that either," John said.

"True. I think you're on to something, Disher, I really do, but if you checked her stomach contents for poison, you'd miss it entirely." He looked up at the medicine and said in almost a sing-songy tone, "Murder most foul, as in the best it is, but this most foul, strange, and unnatural."

Monk quickly caught on; that was from _Hamlet _Act I Scene 5 when Hamlet learned the fate of his father. "Ear poison?"

Sherlock nodded. "Ear poison, disguised as medicine."

"That really works?" Natalie said. "'Cause Julie did a paper on _Hamlet _freshman year where she argued Shakespeare was being metaphorical."

"Oh no, it works. I researched it. If the eardrum is lightly punctured when one is sleeping, the poison can be administered, and it will enter the bloodstream far more quickly than orally."

"So the Hamlet Bandit strikes again," Randy said as he wrote in his notebook. "And this time he's killed.

"Hamlet Bandit?"

"Yeah, if you name 'em, you can catch 'em. I was actually debating between Hamlet Bandit and Shakespeare Silencer. Sharona liked the first one better."

"No, naming a killer gives him notoriety, and it leads to more harm than good."

In the middle of this argument, Natalie's phone rang. "That's odd," she said looking at the screen. "It's your home phone."

"That would be Ambrose," Monk said.

"Oh, yeah, right," she said, handing him the phone.

"Ambrose lives with you now?" Randy asked. "What happened?"

Monk started to walk off with the phone. Sherlock cleared his throat and gestured his head toward Monk. Natalie nodded and followed.

"Nothing? Are you sure? . . . . It involved the most wanted man in Zemenia. I'm just surprised there wouldn't be anything . . . Well, yeah, sure, you have a point. Do you really think the guy would read a Zemenian newspaper? . . . . Yeah, you're right. We should leave no stone uncovered. I'm counting on you to translate it. How's your Polish? . . . . Oh. How's your Russian? . . . . Good. OK, we'll give it a try. We'll be home soon. Thank you, Ambrose. Bye." He hung up and turned around and saw Natalie there. "Why are you following me?"

"Oh, you know, just in case you need something," she answered. He gave her a strange look as he started to go back to the crime scene. "Um, for the record, I bet the 'real' Sherlock Holmes wouldn't know anything about Zemenia. I mean, that's one of those new countries that formed when the Soviet Union split, right?"

"Which is another reason why that guy up there is not Sherlock Holmes." He went back in and approached Sherlock. "I need you to ask someone for back issues of the _Zemenian Times_, issues from August 2008. Then we're going back to my house."

"What for?" Sherlock asked.

"Ambrose and I have been pursuing a question, which I believe if we answer can lead to more answers. Oh, and by the way, we probably shouldn't mention that she was murdered. The Zemenians tend to have a revenge streak."

"Oh sure, like they could catch . . ." Sherlock didn't know how to end that phrase since Monk didn't believe in Moriarty.

* * *

"So, all these cases involved people I have known previously from other cases, people who became particularly close to, for good or for ill. The question is, how does he know that I know these people? Because it's not as easy as you think. Ambrose and I have been going though the records I've kept on cases I solved." Monk passed over to Sherlock a newspaper clipping. "Read this."

He picked it up and looked at it briefly. "Alright, read it."

"I meant aloud."

"Then you should've specified." He picked it up again. "Kidnapped Violinist Rescued: On Friday, Raymond and Janet Novak were arrested for kidnapping concert violinist Daniel Carlyle. Raymond Novak severed Carlyle's little finger in order to raise the ransom. The San Francisco police, under the advice of consultant Adrian Monk, were tipped off to this kidnapping when one of the Novaks' foster children, who's name has not been released to protect the child's identity, discovered the severed finger. This child, as well as the Novak's other five foster children, were sent to other foster families."

"That was Tommy," Monk explained. "Now, read this one. Aloud."

"Egg-Eating Robot Returned to Museum. Togo Kamala, the robot that currently holds the world record for the amount of eggs eaten in five minutes, was returned to the Guinness World Records Museum. San Francisco police arrested John Keyes on Friday for theft of the robot, as well as the murders of a security guard at the museum and the owner of a local jewelry store. Keyes used the robot as an alibi as he stole jewels from the museum. A neighbor, who prefers to be kept anonymous, called police with a noise complaint when Keyes set up Togo to play his drums."

"That was Marge. Do you see a pattern here?"

"Yes, the writers at San Francisco newspapers need to learn more active voice."

"These people who were captured were kept anonymous. The public didn't know who they were. And according to Ambrose, Leyla wasn't even mentioned in an English newspaper, which I had a hard time understanding because that involved the death of a high-profile killer."

"Well, maybe that's because it didn't involve a cute kid or an electronic novelty."

"I suppose that's true."

"Well, she's all over this paper," Ambrose said, looking at one of the _Zemenian Times _issues. "It's on the front page, 'Leyla Zlatovitch Accused Murder for Avenging Deaths of Family.'" But he read on. "That's odd."

"What?"

"It doesn't mention you. It doesn't say you were part of the investigation, doesn't say you thought she was innocent, it doesn't even say anything of your relationship. Most of it's about how horrible the Butcher was."

"So, he still doesn't know we were close. And of course, there's this." Monk pulled out of his draw a big article from the front page of the local section with a big title that read "Monk Case Closed." He slid it over to Sherlock. "Read that one."

Sherlock read, "A murder investigation over a decade old, the death of Trudy Monk, wife of former detective and current private consultant Adrian Monk, has finally been resolved. This weekend, Monk found crucial evidence in his wife's belongings in which . . ." Sherlock stopped reading and slid it over. "I don't want to read that too closely. We still need to discuss it."

Monk just looked at him coldly for a moment, but then he said, "I think you noticed from that article even that information is vague."

"He's right," John said. "It just said 'crucial evidence,' not 'video tape evidence.'"

"So, how does this guy know so much about these cases? How did he get information that wasn't released to the general public? It can't be your guy, unless you can prove he spied on me from England for nine years, which is the latest case we have."

"A private investigator?"

"Again, it's been nine years. How could a private investigator follow me that long and I never notice it. He'd have to be the best private investigator ever, like Sam Spade or Colombo or—"

"Are you saying they exist?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I'm being facetious."

Sherlock personally thought this was a waste of time because he knew who it is, but he decided to indulge Monk. "So, who does have that information?"

"Well, me, of course, Natalie, the Captain—"

"Which one?"

"Well, both of them, actually. Randy didn't get his promotion until after Trudy's murder was solved. Wonder where he puts all his little notebooks when he's done with them?"

"It could be that he found one of these people and tortured them, or made him tell these personal secrets."

"Well, he didn't with me. I'd know," Natalie said.

"Would you, Miss Teeger?"

"If she were gone for long periods of time, I'd notice," Monk added.

"Yeah, my phone would ring off the hook," Natalie added.

"And if the Captain, either one of them, were attacked, they'd make it public record. We'd know about it."

"Well, so much for that," Sherlock said. "It was a good question, but we have others to answer."

"Wait! I think I know someone," Monk said. "Someone who somehow gets access to way too much information about me and has for a very long time."

"So it is a private investigator?" John asked.

"Not quite."

"A stalker?" Ambrose asked.

"Almost. She crosses the line both ways sometimes. Her name's Marci Maven. She's a . . . fan."

"I assume she's Type B," Sherlock said.

"Excuse me?"

"Sherlock's convinced there's two types of detective fans," John explained. "The first type concocts murders and other intricate crimes to see if he can solve them, the other is . . . well, you can probably guess."

"I think I'd say she's more Type C, as in 'certifiable.'"

"Hang on," Sherlock said. "Some people say _we _fit in that category!"

"Just wait until you meet Marci. It'll make sense."

"Me? What do mean, me?"

"You're going to have to question her. Restraining orders work both ways. Meanwhile, I think I might know someone else to question: Jack Monk—"

"DAD?!" Ambrose broke in.

"—Junior."

"Dad's other son?"

"You have another brother?" John asked.

"_Half_-brother, and he _is _an idiot," Monk explained. "He's in jail. He's a con-artist. I met him a few times and told him some of my stories. He kept asking questions, like if I ever fell in love after Trudy. I know I told him everything after solving Trudy's case. I thought he'd wanna know that that was behind me. He swears he keeps the stories between us. He keeps raising his hand to God. I'm not really sure I trust him. But anyway, I'll handle him. You take Marci."

"Wait a minute," Sherlock stood. "Mr. Monk, my time could be better served. I still haven't analyzed the water from your friend's cup or the ear medicine, and I have a theory about why the security systems were disarmed."

"Well, there's time enough to go through that after you talk to Marci. Look, if we find out who gave the guy his information, they could probably tell us how to find him and how to find the people he kidnapped. He's killing now, so the sooner we find this out, the quicker we can get him. Plus, there are other people at headquarters already working on that stuff. I suggest you let them do their job."

Natalie gave them the address, and he sent them on their way, but Sherlock still took his time. He just sat behind the wheel for a moment. "Something doesn't feel right. I think he's just pawning us off. There's something missing he's forgetting."

"I thought Mr. Monk doesn't forget," John said.

"Then he's forgetting on purpose," Sherlock said as he started his car engine.


	8. Chapter 8

Note: I want to thank MerlinPsych for some of the ideas in this chapter. Some of this may not be accurate, but just roll with it.

Sherlock decided to rely on his best tactic to get information out of people—disguise. And being in America, particularly California, there was one disguise that seemed easy and ideal—the tourist.

"What do you think, John? Do I look the part?"

He was wearing a baseball cap colored red, white, and blue (but it didn't look like the American flag so it might still be acceptable in England or other parts of the world), Natalie's fiancé's sunglasses, a white shirt that had printed in black letters, "Don't you think if I were wrong, I'd know it?", loose jeans, and blue Crocs. John couldn't stop himself from laughing. "It's perfect. Your own mother wouldn't recognize you. Good grief, you look American! You just need more of a tan."

"I don't think so. I've spent enough on this already."

"Isn't that a quote from Sheldon Cooper?"

"I saw it, and I remembered what Adrian said, 'Unless I'm wrong, which, you know, I'm not.' I thought this was close enough."

* * *

Natalie parked the car in a small parking garage next to the prison. They checked in with the guard and followed all procedures, then they finally went to the area with the phones. Jack Jr. was led in and picked up the receiver on his side. "Hey, bro! How you doing?"

"Afternoon, Jack. I'm fine, considering."

"Haven't seen you in a while. What's up?"

"I just wanted to make sure what we talked about specifically when I visited here before."

"No probs, bro."

* * *

They drove to the address Natalie gave them, and Sherlock knocked on the door. "Now just follow my lead," he said quietly.

A young woman with dark hair wearing some ratty, yet colorful-looking, clothes answered. "Uh, hey?"

"Afternoon, love," Sherlock said in a more youthful voice. "I'm just checking out if I have the right place. Are you Marci Maven?"

"Yeah," she answered.

Sherlock looked at John. "Holy cow, it's her. Can you believe it, John?"

"No, I can't, I can't believe it."

"See, my buddy and I are _huge_ mystery buffs. We're on vacation, we're going to LA to see where _Dragnet _and _Colombo _and _House _were filmed, but first we wanted to stop in San Fran and see the real thing."

"Those shows are all cancelled. Their sets are still around?" Marci asked.

"Yeah, we're really just killing time until Comic-Con," John said.

"Comic-Con!" Sherlock said as he high fived John.

"Awesome!" Marci said.

"Anyways, I was on your website, and you're, like, the Adrian Monk goddess, aren't you?"

She brightened up considerably at that. "You bet I am! Anybody who says any different is lying. You know, I'm the curator of the unofficial Adrian Monk fan art museum. Wanna come see?"

"Oh, that would so wicked! John, can we?"

John shrugged. "Yeah, why not? We've got nothing better to do. We've already seen Alcatraz."

"Great, come in! I'll make some square cookies." She went in.

Before going in, Sherlock said in his regular voice, "Comic-Con? What are you trying to do, make me look like a nerd?"

"Well, I thought that was what you were going for, _Sheldon_," John answered.

* * *

So Jack told everything they discussed previously in his usual casual fashion. Marci told Sherlock and John all she knew, but she made them do it like a game, a "stump the curator" thing, and they took pictures with their phone of all her "exhibits." Jack knew nothing about Marge, and though Marci knew Monk solved Trudy's murder and it "totally changed him," she didn't know the specifics about how. But they both had something in common that the detectives took note of.

"Now, tell me, Jack, did anybody come here asking you for this information?" Monk asked.

"I didn't tell nobody, like I promised, hand to God!" Jack answered.

Monk shook his head; he know how binding that oath was to Jack. "That's not exactly what I asked."

"Well, there was a guy last week. He said he was your biographer, and he wanted to pump me for info about you." He leaned in and whispered, "I don't think he understood we didn't grow up together, so I kinda winged it."

"You mean it wasn't entirely true?"

"Yeah, I may have exaggerated some stuff. But I'll tell you something crazy. Guess what his name was?"

"Did it sound Italian and start with an M?"

"Oh, goodness, no. You're way off. His name was Tom Jones!"

Monk gave him an odd look. "Really, Tom Jones?"

"No, not the singer. But it was funny; the whole time I was talking to him, I was thinking, 'What's New, Pussycat?'" He laughed really hard while Monk contemplated on how that couldn't be a coincidence.

* * *

"Oh, before you leave, will you sign this?" Marci said handing them a clipboard. "It's a petition to get them to do the Adrian Monk movie. Now, I know they tried this a few years ago, but Daniel Thorne couldn't adapt to the role. So for next time, I'm suggesting Johnny Depp, because he's better at adapting to unusual roles. Oh, and if he's not available, my next choice would be Tom Hanks."

John took the clipboard. "You know who would really be good for that? Dustin Hoffman. Yeah, he knocked _Rain Man_ out of the park. I think he could do it!"

"Oh, that would be awesome!" She looked at Sherlock. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"Not really," he answered. Actor names was one topic that didn't stay long in his hard drive.

"I'm pretty sure he'd like to see Dustin Hoffman do it too," John covered for him.

Sherlock never gave her a cover name, and she never asked for one, but he noticed what he was going to put down was just one space over "John Guildenstern." "Tom Jones was here?"

"Oh, no, not _that _Tom Jones, but he was here about a week ago. He was quite the looker, too. He asked about as many questions as you did and stayed for hours. I think I got a picture of him. Oh yeah, right here." She pointed to a photo on a collage. It was very clearly Moriarty. "He was all the way from London. Hey, you guys never said where you're from with those delicious accents. You from London, too?"

"Thereabouts, yeah," John said. He shrugged at Sherlock, thinking since she'd already figured out their accents he might as well say.

"Oh, you _must_ tell me about Sherlock Holmes! I've heard all about him on my message boards. He's like the Adrian Monk of London, right?"

Sherlock immediately made a face. On one level, the comparison made sense. She was more a fan of Monk, and he'd been around longer, but he still didn't like it.

"He . . . he's pretty good," John said. "I never seen him lose a case."

"He's actually better," Sherlock said. "You know why? Because he's not hemmed in by a million irrational phobias and obsessions!"

"Hey, those are just quirks," Marci said. "They make Monk more interesting, more unique. They actually help him do his job because he picks on things more easily." But then she grinned and looked at them. "But one thing I have heard about Sherlock is he's a lot younger. Is he hot?"

The two of them both looked at each other uncomfortably. John had a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to tell Sherlock that the Polyjuice Potion was starting to wear off, but he doubted Sherlock would understand the reference. "I doubt it," Sherlock said. "He's always wearing that coat and scarf."

"No, I mean—"

Sherlock quickly pulled the phone out of his pocket. "Oh, I gotta take this. Sorry. Thank you so much for everything, Miss Maven."

"But I haven't shown you everything."

Still, they got out as quick as they could.

* * *

"That can't be a coincidence," Monk mused on the way out. "Tom Jones, just like . . . you-know-who's phone. What does it mean?"

"Mr. Monk," Natalie said, stepping in front of him to stop him, "Tom Jones isn't just a singer, you know. He's a literary character. Sound familiar?"

He just looked at her and didn't answer.

"It's not a coincidence, Mr. Monk."

He just sighed, put his hand to his head, and walked past her.

On their way out, Natalie's phone rang. She looked at the screen. "Oh, it's Steven! But there's no way I can get a signal in the parking garage. Here, you wanna wait while I take this?"

"No, I can go on," he said.

"You sure? I know how hard parking garages are for you."

"I was in a parking garage with Molly last month. I was OK."

"Mr. Monk, I'd really rather you'd stay here. I'll only be a minute."

"No, you won't. I've been engaged before, too, remember? You'll say it's a minute, but then it turns into several minutes, then several hours, then it's, 'You hang up first. No, you hang up first,' and nobody hangs up!"

"Alright, to be frank, Sherlock doesn't want you to be alone."

"Let's me guess, he's afraid the moment we're separated the big, bad Moriarty's gonna kill me. Even if that were true, the last place he'd go after me is a prison! Look, I'm not a child. I'm not afraid of Moriarty or whoever or whatever he is."

"You're right. I'm not your mom. You go on, but if something happens, don't say I didn't tell you so." So, Monk went out the door. She figured she'd keep the call brief and catch up with as quick as she could. Yet when she answered, she only got a dial tone. It didn't go to voicemail, and he didn't try to text her. She thought she'd figure it out later, but as she stepped out to run, she noticed a very bright red dot hover over her heart. She gasped, and she knew she couldn't move.

Monk started going to the elevator to the floor where Natalie's car was when he heard someone call his name. "Adrian?"

He turned around, and his heart skipped a beat. "Trudy?" Just behind him was a car sitting alone, the same make, model, and color as Trudy's car, and looking out the rolled-down window was a lovely blonde woman. Monk knew for sure now that he was losing his mind, but as he came closer, he realized it wasn't his wife. "Monica." He remembered the case from years ago, Monica Waters, the woman who looked so much like his wife, who everybody thought killed her husband when he was really a schizophrenic.

She smiled. "It's been a long time, Adrian. How are you?"

"What are you doing here, Monica? Why aren't you with your husband in Zurich?"

"I wanted to see you."

"Why? Are you being accused again? Do you need my help? How did you even know I was here? How d—" He came close enough to see that she was handcuffed to the steering wheel. He stopped in his tracks. "Monica, what's going on?"

Her face suddenly became filled with terror. "Adrian, don't worry about me. Don't try to free me. Don't try to stop him."

"Who?"

A little red dot suddenly appeared on his hand, another on his chest, right over his heart. Monk slowly turned around. It was him again, standing at the guard's podium. He grinned and waved at Adrian, and he held up a remote and positioned his finger above a button.

"He'll only let you go if you run, Adrian," Monica said. "Get out of here as fast as you can. Don't look back! Run, Adrian! RUN!"

Not knowing what else to do, Monk ran and screamed for Natalie. He went back through the door, and as soon as he shut it, he heard an explosion.


	9. Chapter 9

The police were there in no time. Monk was sitting in the back of an ambulance with a shock blanket draped over his shoulders. He was stone silent, never making any reply to anyone except to shake his head.

"Well, no one else was hurt," Stottlemeyer said to him. "Some cars were damaged, but it does look like, unfortunately, Mrs. Waters was our one fatality. Looks like someone went to great lengths to mess with ya, Monk. Did you see who did this?"

Monk didn't answer. He just stared ahead.

"Monk, stay with me here. Don't go out on me. I need you to tell me who did this!"

"Who did this?" Monk said softly.

"You saying you didn't see? You were the only one in the garage, Monk. You're the closest thing we have to a witness! Please, tell me something!"

But Monk didn't respond.

"Monk, I can't lose you, not again. What can I do?"

"What can I do?"

Sherlock's car pulled up about that time. John got out right away and found Natalie, who was standing alone, crying. "Natalie, are you alright?"

"I don't know. Mr. Monk . . ." She saw Sherlock, wearing his usual clothes and carrying a computer case, staring her down with a disapproving look. She dried her tears and looked back at him. "For the record, I tried not to leave him alone. He went off by himself. I'm not his mother."

"For the record, I don't care," he answered coldly.

"Don't blame her, Sherlock," John said. "This would've happened even if she was with him."

This time, Sherlock didn't answer.

The captain approached them. "How is he, Captain?" John asked.

"Physically, he's fine," Stottlemeyer answered, "but he's pulling away from us. I've seen him like this only a couple times in my life."

"When Trudy died?"

"Yeah, and that time we thought Trudy was alive a few years ago. In fact, it's a bit more like that. Anyway, he won't talk about what he saw specifically. We can't get a statement out of him. Randy's calling Dr. Bell to talk to him. Perhaps we can nip this in the bud."

"Let me talk to him first, Captain," Sherlock said.

"With all due respect, Holmes, you don't really know how to handle Monk. We've had a lot more time with him. He gets like this . . . a lot. See, he's not a typical detective, like you."

"There's _nothing _typical about me, Captain. Let me talk to him."

"Fine. Take your best shot."

Natalie and John went over to the ambulance first. "Mr. Monk, are you alright?"

He finally started talking. "I don't believe it. He . . . he's real. He killed my friend. But it can't, he can't-!" Monk covered his face and rocked.

Natalie rubbed his back. "It's gonna be OK, Mr. Mon—"

"OK?! OK?! Natalie, it's _never _gonna be OK! Don't you get it? Everything's . . . what's real? What's not? How can I know? I used to know. Now, it's not so simple. I can't be sure of anything anymore. If this is true, then nothing's true. If this is true, then _nothing's _true."

Natalie looked at John and shrugged. She remembered him say that once before, and she didn't know how to respond any more than she did then. Then they heard someone clear his throat behind them. They turned and saw Sherlock standing next to the ambulance. He gestured his head to the side, and they both nodded and got out of his way.

Sherlock sat down next to Monk and opened his laptop. "I want to show you something." Once he got a wi-fi signal, he pulled up a website on the Internet. "This is my blog. I started it before I met you, before I met John, before I even decided to become a consulting detective."

Monk looked at the screen. "The Science of Deduction," he read. He scoffed. "That was the title of the book the _real _Sherlock Holmes wrote."

Sherlock only scrolled down. "This is one of my first posts on my blog, in which I outlined some ways modern technology could be used in forensics." He pointed with his cursor below the entry. "Notice one of the commentators to my entry."

Monk looked at it, but it was a lengthy paragraph written in French. "Sorry, I only know Spanish, and not very much of it."

"Do you at least recognize the name of the poster?"

Monk looked at the top of the paragraph. "C. August-ee Duppin," he read. Then his eyes grew wide. "Wait a minute."

"It's pronounced _Doo-pin_, Auguste Dupin."

"Edgar Allen Poe's detective? The beginning of the literary mystery genre? 'Murders in the Rue Morgue,' 'Pickwick Papers,' that guy?"

"The very same."

"How could . . . OK, hang on. If there's one thing I know about the Internet, it's that anybody can post as anybody. I mean, how do you know this isn't a sixty-year-old grandmother in Montreal?"

"Exactly, I was just as skeptical. I grew up on Poe; he was really the only writer I enjoyed as a child." He minimized the blog and then pulled up a photo album. "So, I took the Chunnel to Paris, and I met him myself."

"You . . . met him?"

Sherlock scrolled through until he found the picture of a policeman. "There he is. This is his office. He showed me this, too." He scrolled to the next picture a close-up of a lock of orange hair.

"Is that-?

Sherlock nodded. "Orangutan hair, which he used to solve his first case. He told me that he was fascinated with my ideas, and he suggested that I make a career out of it. I have this man to thank for who I am today."

"But it's not . . . it's impossible."

"I know it is. I told him so. I asked him how a Frenchman who was originally the creation of an American a century ago could really be in Paris and could really have any interest in my opinions." He shook his head. "I'll never forget what he told me. He said, '_Garçon, la difference entre la vérité et la fiction c'est que la fiction doit être réelle.'"_

"Just how many languages do you know?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I've lost count. It means, 'The difference between truth and fiction is that fiction must be real.'"

"But that doesn't make sense. Fiction, by definition, is not true, and truth, by definition—"

"Oh, it's French logic. Don't even try. I think what he was saying is that there's an element of reality in fiction, and there's an element of fiction in reality . The point is, you're not insane. These things happen. I know it drives both of us to distraction because we can't explain why, but nevertheless . . . you asked me for evidence. This is the best evidence I had."

Monk looked away.

"Oh, by the way, I tested the water. The toxin is not fatal; it's just enough to temporarily paralyze her. I know you're upset, but . . ." He put his hand on Monk's shoulder and added, "you'll thank me later."

Monk shook his shoulder and pulled away.

Sherlock sighed and shut his computer. "So even that doesn't convince you. OK. At the end of the day, we both know who we are. Nothing's going to change that. So, it doesn't matter what you think of me. If you want to believe I'm fictional or that I'm not the _real _Sherlock Holmes, that's fine. I don't care. But I do care about our alliance. I do care about keeping the line of communication between us. Because . . . we are more alike than you may realize. You're more like me than John or Lestrade. You may be more like me than anyone I met."

"Even Dupin?"

"Well, I just met him the one time, so I cannot really say. What I'm telling you is it helps sometimes knowing that there's someone else who's a little like me, someone who knows how I think, someone who's been there, someone who's not a criminal, someone who's a detective, like me. That's why I was upset when you didn't call. I just want to be reminded sometimes, just want to talk to someone who's not so . . . ordinary."

"You don't get it. I don't care about what you think, either. I care about what _I _think. You're young. You haven't been where I've been, and I pray you never do."

"You don't have to."

"But it's a nightmare! It's a dreadful nightmare of no escape, no hope. My mind is a prison. I was lucky to get out. I can't go back in. I can't."

Sherlock stood and turned away. "Then don't let him."

"What?"

"You know this is not about me. It's about him. Regardless of who he is, he wants nothing more than to you lock you away in that prison, where you will be no good to anyone. Don't let him."

"How do you know?"

"Do you have to ask me that?" He turned back. "You said last year, he deserves to die. We both know enough about morality to know he's evil through and through. He's kidnapped people. He's killed people. He's tortured, he's stolen, he's threatened. And he won't stop until we stop him or he stops us. Which would you prefer, Mr. Monk?"

Monk shut his eyes and did something he didn't really want to do. "Randy!"

Randy came over. "Monk, you want me to call Dr. Bell now?"

"Not now. I'm ready to talk."

"Oh!" Randy pulled out his little notebook. "What can you tell us about what you saw?"

"I was wrong about him, Randy."

"Wrong about who?"

"The man you told me about. He is dangerous. He did it. He's the guy."

Randy looked stunned. "Monk, why did you lie to me?"

"I didn't lie. I just, it's complicated."

"He doesn't think he exists," Sherlock explained.

"Are you sure you don't wanna talk to Dr. Bell?" Randy asked.

Monk took a deep breath. "Randy, I have to talk to Sharona."


	10. Chapter 10

Monk explained to Sherlock, John, and Natalie what Randy told him about Sharona. Randy still wanted it kept private, so they interviewed her in the back interrogation room.

"We don't want you to be too disturbed, so if this too painful, we'll understand if you want to stop," Natalie told her.

"It's just so hard," Sharona said. "I've never experienced this before. I've always been the tough one."

"Yeah, we know," Monk said. "So can you tell us how it started?"

"Well, I was just a couple months gone. I was shopping at a grocery store, and there was this guy, I thought he was stocking the produce at first. While I was reaching for some potatoes, he said, 'When's the big day?' Now, I wasn't showing, so I nearly knocked him upside the head, but then he grabbed my wrist, and he said, 'I wouldn't do that, Sharona.' And then he said, 'That's right, I know who you are. I know where you live. I where you work. I know where you used to work. I know who your husband is. And most of all, I know you're pregnant.' I thought he was just talking big game because my husband is the police captain, but I went ahead and asked him who he was, and he wouldn't tell me his name. He said, 'You know all those mob bosses your husband attempts to keep in line? I know them all by name, and they do what I say.' And then I asked him what he wanted, and he looked at me with those cold, brown eyes and answered, 'I'm going to kill you, Sharona. And your dear man in blue can do nothing to save you. It's not a question of 'if,' it's a question of 'when,'" Sharona paused for a moment, shut her eyes tightly, and took a couple deep breaths, then said in a softer voice, "and then he patted my stomach, and he said, 'and that entirely depends on you.'"

"So he was blackmailing you?"

"Something like that, yeah. He promised to keep me alive if I gave him what he demanded. I just wanted to keep it going as long as I could so he wouldn't hurt the baby."

"What did he ask for?" Natalie asked.

"Randy's notes. Old ones. He wanted me to go as far as 2001. I couldn't believe Randy still had those notebooks, but they were all there, stacked in the basement. I gave him one a week, until Randy found out and we came back here."

"That make sense," Monk said. "Randy's extremely meticulous, he takes notes on everything. He's been like that as long as I known him. I think it was part of being the captain's right-hand man. He was sure to have all the details the guy needed to get under my skin, and then some."

"Well, I have the last notebook I was going to give him since I came here." She pulled it out of her purse. Monk took it from her, opened it, and saw all kinds of symbols he didn't recognize. He showed it to Sherlock. "What is this, some kind of shorthand?"

"I certainly hadn't seen it before."

They showed it to Randy and asked him to explain. "Oh, this is based on a language I created when I was nine years old. I've been tweaking it and perfecting it ever since, trying to make it as secretive as I can. I call it Randese."

"You write your notes in code?" Monk asked.

"Well, sure. Why not? They're for my eyes only; I can put them in an official police report later. You know, if I do something stupid and misplace my notebook, it could wind up in the wrong hands. I actually thought it impressed my commanding officers in police academy, got me through."

Sherlock was scanning through it. "This is actually quite clever, Disher."

He grinned. "Thanks."

"I can't believe you came up with it."

"Huh?"

"He means he's very impressed, and he apologizes," John said.

"Apologizes for what?"

"Never you mind."

"So, do you think he cracked this?" Monk asked.

"He probably could," Sherlock answered. "I wouldn't be surprised if he tried. However, I think he probably decided there was an easier way to that kind of information. He did visit Miss Maven."

"Yeah, how was that?"

"You may be right, Mr. Monk; there may be a Type C, but there's still certainly a lot of Type B overlap. If you ask me, it should've been Type NC, as in No Caffeine Allowed."

"He visited my half-brother, too. So he probably got a wealth of information from both of them. But still, there were gaps. How did he get to those?"

They were getting back to the bullpen, and once they reached there, a phone at one of the desks rang. Sherlock suddenly stopped in his tracks. "Bell," he whispered. He ran through his memory, just to make sure. At the car rental place, John said, "Natalie says we can take our time. Mr. Monk's meeting with his therapist, Dr. Bell." Ambrose told him that Dr. Bell came by. Randy asked Monk if he was sure he didn't want to talk to Dr. Bell. "That's it."

"What?" Monk asked.

Sherlock turned to him. "I had a feeling you were holding something back. Of all the people who knew about all these events, there's one you failed to mention—your therapist."

"Yes, well, here's the thing—Dr. Bell wasn't my therapist during all these events. For most of them, he was, but Tommy and Monica were before his time."

"Oh, come on. You who are so afraid of change, why would you change therapists?"

"Because Dr. Kroger died. Natural causes, heart attack. Dead therapists are good at listening, but they don't offer a lot of advice. Not that I didn't try; I went to his grave a couple times."

"Regardless, I'm sure he has the files from your former therapist."

"One other thing—I don't know how you do things in Britain, but in America we have very strict doctor/patient confidentiality laws. Not even the police can have access to a therapist's files or know anything about his patients without his permission or a warrant."

Sherlock just looked at him. "You think I'm going to find out something about you, aren't you? You have nothing to fear; I already know you're mental."

"It's not just me! I've had cases that involved my therapists before. It's a real ironclad rule; I couldn't even overstep it when someone had been murdered."

"No, there's something more. There's a reason why you're holding this back." He pointed to him. "Your therapist said you shouldn't call me, didn't he? He's the one who told you I'm not real."

"Well, we talked about it. He agreed it was not a good idea to continue in a fantasy. But I had my suspicions when I reread the stories."

Sherlock did not like this at all, and his meeting Dr. Bell went about how he thought it would.

"So, this is who you told me about, Adrian?" The therapist shook his hand. "Please to meet you. Adrian's said a lot of good things about you."

"Thank you, doctor," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, how may I address you?"

"Sherlock, please."

"You know, there's no reason to be 'on' here. We're all friends. So who are you, really?"

He glared at him. "Sherlock's been my name since the day I was born."

"Really? Hmmm. You sincerely believe that."

"Why wouldn't I? Just because I share a name with a fictitious character—"

"Well, it could be a serious issue. I've met some men, very good men, kind men, who sincerely believe that they're Santa Claus."

"Yes, I've heard that story. They took him to court to prove his identity, and the Post Office diverts all mail addressed to Father Christmas to the courthouse, and somehow that proves it."

"I wasn't referring to _Miracle on 34__th__ Street_, Sherlock. I've met other people, all sorts of people, most of them pretty good though some not great, who believe with all their heart that they are the Messiah, the Son of God."

"Oh yes, I know _that _story ends."

"OK, maybe you'll appreciate this. I once met someone who believed he was a knight from the Round Table in search for—"

"I'M NOT DELUSIONAL!"

"That's funny. You know the kind of people who say that, especially with that intensity? People who have delusions."

"But they don't have proof, do they? I have identification, birth certificate, look, here's my passport. People with delusions maintain them when all evidence points to the contrary."

"I can vouch for him too, Dr. Bell," John said. "I have a therapist myself. She's never called Sherlock crazy. I've never called him crazy. I've called him a lot of other things, but . . ."

"You know, all the same, a little examination couldn't hurt," Dr. Bell answered. "Technically, Adrian's in group therapy, but all the other members of the group are no longer with us. You know, you could take one of their spots."

"Oh, so you want me to come here every day from England?" Sherlock said sarcastically.

"No, I think you know that's ludicrous. As I understand, you've wanted to Skype with Adrian. This could be your chance." He started pulling it up on his tablet.

"I don't need therapy."

"You know the kind of people who say that?" John piped up.

"Shut up!"

"Dr. Bell, that's not what we're here for," Monk said. "We're concerned that—"

"What kind of computer is that?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Isn't it something?" Dr. Bell said. "It's a prototype, straight from Silicon Valley. They wanted me to test it out. I feel like the future is here, like I'm in _Star Trek _with this thing."

"Can I see it?"

"I'd rather you didn't. All my personal files on my patients are in here."

"That could be a problem. It's been hacked."

Everyone, including Monk, stared at him in shocked silence, but then Dr. Bell smiled and shook his head. "No, that's not possible. The security is state of the art. I have it all set up according to the manual, which by the way, Adrian's brother wrote."

Sherlock was a little taken aback by that. "How do you know that? Instruction manuals are not signed."

Monk explained, "He read a portion aloud in one of our sessions. I recognized Ambrose's style. He's wordy, a little too overwhelming with details."

"You recognized his style?"

Monk shrugged. "I used to proofread his English papers before he handed them in to Mom."

John said, "That's amazing, really, Mr. Monk, but what does that have to do with the hacking?"

Sherlock went into his deduction speed as he explained. "Here's what happened. This isn't from Silicon Valley. It's not even from California. It does seem a little too good to be true, doesn't it, being sent an exquisite, expensive computer for free? But getting a trustworthy name like Ambrose Monk associated with it further assuaged any concerns you might have. You downloaded all your files on Adrian into the tablet, but they were also downloaded to a secondary location." He looked at Monk, "And then he had all the information on you he could ever want, from both your therapists. His plan was to get his information from Disher's notes, but when that didn't work the way he intended. So he used your therapist without his knowledge. All he had to do was fill in the details using gullible innocents with enough connections to you and yet not personally affiliated with you, like Miss Maven. The rest was simple."

Everyone was silent again and marveled at him. "Well, OK, that makes sense," Monk said, "but where are you getting this information? Where's your evidence?"

Sherlock pointed at the tablet. "The logo."

Monk looked at the back of the tablet. "Lahmet Industries."

"What about it?" Dr. Bell said. "I always assumed it was Middle Eastern."

But as Monk looked at it, he realized it was an acronym. He mentally rearranged the letters and he said aloud with Sherlock, "Hamlet."

"Wonder why I never noticed that. I saw it for weeks," Monk said.

"Can't blame yourself, it wasn't on your radar," Sherlock said.

"This could be our key."

"The trail of blood."

"Excuse me, I don't understand," Dr. Bell.

Monk explained, "We've been investigating a number of cases, kidnappings and murders, involving people I knew, most of which include references to Hamlet. We wondered how the guy knew about these people when their information was not made public. We thought it might have something to do with you."

"Oh, is that what the deal is? Why didn't you say so?"

"We tried, but then you went on a tangent of questioning my sanity," Sherlock answered. "Now, I really need to see that tablet."

"I think the logo is enough to get a warrant," Monk said.

"We don't have the luxury of time." He turned to the psychiatrist. "Doctor, you have my word, I swear I will not open any of your patients' files, including Mr. Monk's. Your confidentiality will remain entirely intact."

"Yes, I'll verify that. You have my word as well."

Dr. Bell, confused, asked, "Well, if you're not going to open the file, why do you need it?"

"Because, Doctor," Sherlock answered, "this may include the key that's eluded us all along—how to find them."

* * *

"OK, explain this to me again," Monk said as they came back to his place. "Why do we need his computer to find them?"

"You remember every time a security system was involved, they never went off? A code was downloaded into the keypads, which as I explained before, was consistent at both scenes. You may also remember that there were flashes on the tape neither of us could perceive. I believe there's another code in the tape. And somewhere in the hard drive of this computer, we may find another code. We can triangulate this codes to pinpoint a location. Do you understand?"

"Yeah . . . no."

"Just leave it to me, Mr. Monk. I'm the computer whiz here. I know what I'm doing."

Monk went forward to unlock the door, but as he came closer, he saw the door was already cracked opened. He could already see a mess in the study. "Oh no," he whispered.

"What's the matter?" Natalie asked.

"Someone broke in."

"Oh no, Ambrose!"

"We don't want to rush in, Miss Teeger," Sherlock said. "It could be a trap."

"He could be hurt!"

"John, you go in first."

"Why me?" he asked.

"Because I'm unarmed, and you can rely on your military background."

"I thought he was a doctor," Monk said.

"He had bad days."

So John went in slowly, and very shortly after, they heard a scream.

"AMBROSE!" Monk ran in. He found his brother on the floor.

John had his hands pressed on Ambrose's stomach, which was covered in blood. "He's been shot! Natalie, call an ambulance! Sherlock, help me apply pressure to the wound."

"Adrian?" Ambrose said weakly. "Adrian?"

Monk came to his side. "I'm right here."

"He wants me to go outside. I don't wanna go outside. Don't make me go outside."

Monk held his hand. "It's OK. You don't have to go outside if you don't want to."

"Keep your eyes open, Ambrose," John said. "Stay with us."

"Who did this?" Sherlock said.

"I don't know," Ambrose shook his head as he grimaced in pain. "He didn't say. It wasn't the man from the video. He . . . he smelled . . . like pasta primavera . . . Dad's . . . favorite . . ." He closed his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

Monk didn't let go of his brother's hand until the paramedics came. It never did fall limp, even after Ambrose lost consciousness. After they took Ambrose to the ambulance, Adrian stood in the middle of the room, his head buried in his hands, looking very depressed. He only looked up when John put his hand on Monk's shoulder. "He'll be fine. It's not a fatal wound. We got here just in time. The doctors are gonna take good care of him."

"Yeah, I know that," Monk nodded sadly.

"Then what's the matter?"

Monk gestured to the blood stain on the floor. "That's never gonna come out."

"Mr. Monk, do you mind if . . . Natalie goes to the hospital with him? You know, he needs someone who cares about him, a loved one, to be with him. I don't think you have anymore family, and he'd want you to keep working on the case."

"But I need . . . I need . . ." Monk started looking around his house and started fiddling with his fingers.

"I'll help you. You know, unlike some people, I know my way around a vacuum. Just tell me what to do."

Monk looked at him. "He's a doctor, he knows how to sanitize," he thought. "Alright, you'll do," he said aloud. "The police have to come first. Kinda wish they'd hurry up. It's soaking in."

"Why don't you turn your attention to everything else? Do some inventory, make sure nothing was taken."

"What would they take from me? I've got nothing of value."

"Just check around, do your hand thing, see for yourself."

Monk nodded and started, but then looked at him again. "Are you sure he's OK? 'Cause he kept saying someone wanted him to go outside."

"You think he was talking about the intruder?"

"No, I think he was talking about . . ." He looked up.

"It's alright. Everybody thinks they're gonna die when they get shot. I've been in war; I know."

So Monk walked around his own house with his hands spread out looking for inconsistencies. Sherlock was immersed in working with Dr. Bell's computer and did not talk. Stottlemeyer got there a little later, and Monk told him everything.

"Must've been a burglary gone wrong," the captain said. "Did you see anything that was taken?"

"No, I haven't found anything. I wonder if it really was a burglary."

"What else would it be?"

"Well, think about it. The study and the living room are a wreck, and the kitchen's pretty bad too, but the bedroom is untouched. A lot of the big valuables are usually in the bedroom—jewelry, cash, guns. You'd think if it were a burglary, that would be just as torn up."

"So what else? Did they come to kill Ambrose?"

"If they wanted to kill Ambrose specifically, why did they come here? He's lived in Tewksbury his whole life. This would be the last place they'd look for him. I think he walked in on them, and they shot him, and it wasn't even a fatal shot. They didn't want to kill him."

"Well, what else is there? They didn't come here just to make a mess!"

Monk looked hard at him. "I think that's _exactly _why they came here."

Stottlemeyer laughed. "You can't be serious."

"That's why they tore up these rooms up front. They would've gotten the whole house, but then Ambrose came in, and they thought that shooting him would give me enough of a distraction and the worst mess ever."

"But why would they do that?"

"Because this guy is trying to break me. He's gone after people I care about, and when he killed Monica in front of me, he thought he'd managed it, but with help from my British colleagues, I've been able to press on. So, he sent another distraction that he knows will get me where it hurts—my home. Turning my home that I keep so clean and in order into . . . chaos."

"Your saying this guy thought making your house a mess would make you more an emotional wreck than losing the two women you dated?"

"When I was mildly infatuated. I admit, I'm rattled, I'm upset, but I'm not broken. Even this isn't gonna break me. He doesn't know how good I am at cleaning. Trust me, I got this handled."

"So, you know who's behind this?"

"Well, this in particular was probably the mob. Ambrose said they smelled like pasta primavera, so more than likely they came from Café Palmero. And you remember, Randy said they didn't want to hurt me, which explains why they made such a cowardly shot. They could've killed him instantly."

"Do you also remember that Randy said they had an alibi?"

"Yeah, I think they were hired, and whoever hired them made sure they covered their tracks."

Stottlemeyer looked into the other room. "Well, this isn't something I expected. In your moment of crisis, the greatest detective in Europe, pretty much your counterpart, is watching TV." He lowered his voice. "You sure he's not strung out?"

"Say what?"

The captain got in closer. "Lestrade one insinuated that at one point in his life, Holmes had some . . . substance abuse issues."

"I'm not surprised by that. In the book, it says he used cocaine on a regular basis."

"What book?"

"But he's not strung out. He's pulling together the last clues we have from Dr. Bell's computer and a video we received from the guy so that we can hopefully finally figure out where he is. He explained it to me, but it didn't make much sense, and he knows more about computers than I do. After all, the best way to get back at the guys who shot Ambrose is to get the guy. Now, if you don't mind, could you leave? That's really all I got, and I need to get this stain out."

"OK . . ." Stottlemeyer said.

Once the police left, Monk instructed John to start straightening the study, then he got out his bleach and scrubbed harder than he probably ever had before to get out his brother's blood. It felt so strange, but he couldn't help but think of killers he caught in the past and wondered if they had to go though the same thing. While he was working, he listened to Sherlock going through that video again, pausing and un-pausing at certain points. Around the end, Monk dropped his scrubber. "Wait a minute," he said getting up and joining Sherlock. "Picture go back, picture go back.

"You mean rewind?" Sherlock said.

"Yeah, whatever the word is in Britain, do it."

"Say when." Sherlock pushed rewind.

"OK, picture regular."

"It's a simple, monosyllabic word, Mr. Monk—play."

"Whatever." Sherlock pushed play.

The man on the tape said, "And you can get his help, if you want. I really don't care, because this time it's not about him. It's about you. It's all about you."

Monk nodded. "That's what I thought he said."

"What?"

"Well, it's curious, isn't it? He said he doesn't care if you come, and yet he changed your ringtone. He got your attention, kinda lured you in."

"Yes, it is a bit curious, now that you mention it. Personally, I think he'd say he doesn't care, but in reality he can't resist. He wants me here for a reason. Maybe it's to witness your crushing defeat. We'll see. You know what I think is curious?"

"What?"

"He never said his name or my name. He could've. He knows me very well. He knows you know me."

"So?"

"I happened to notice, you've never called me by name ever since I got here."

"I know."

"That was what he was going to tell you. That's 'the best part.'"

"I know. I told you I knew."

Sherlock grinned.

"What are you smiling about?"

"I like this, when we both figure something out, and we don't have to tell each other why or what it is even."

"You're right. It's a good feeling." He went back to scrubbing.

A few minutes later, Sherlock spoke up again. "Aha! Got it. And not a moment too soon, the smell of bleach is making me dizzy."

"I'm not done!"

"Mr. Monk, it's a spot on your carpet. It's not your son."

"It's not a spot; it's a stain! It's more of a glob."

"And the difference is . . .?"

"A spot comes out easily; a stain doesn't. I don't wanna move."

"Move?" John said from the other room. "Why don't you just get new carpet?"

Monk stopped and looked up at him. "Do you even hear yourself? You live in a dream world."

"On Baker Street, 221_C _is still vacant," Sherlock said. Monk gave him the same look. He shrugged. "Just a suggestion." The map came up on his computer came up. Sherlock groaned. "Still a very wide radius. Hang on, I gotta narrow this down. You go back to cleaning your bloody carpet."

But Monk stopped and stared at him. "Excuse me? Say that again."

Sherlock gave him annoyed look and said very slowly, "Bloody carpet."

"That's a British curse word."

"You're right. It's a double entendre, and it worked pretty well, don't you think?" Monk stared off into space for a moment. "Oh come on, I didn't offend you that badly."

"I solved the case. I know where they are!"

John came right in. "Where are they?"

"Think Shakespeare. 'Sblood, 'swounds. It's in Hamlet at least once, I think. It's an oath, referring to God's blood, or Christ's blood."

"Right, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, it's a big part of Christianity. They believe they are cleansed by Christ's blood. It's part of their teaching, part of their rituals."

Sherlock was getting it. "He said he'd be at the end of the trail of blood."

"Yes! I thought he meant at the end of the trail of destruction, but—"

"He means churches! And there are a lot of them in San Francisco. It's a very Catholic town, named after Francis of Assisi." He typed something into his map. "Sure enough, there's a line of them in here: Catholic church, Baptist Church, Church of God, Church of Christ, mission, mission, mission, and at the end of it—" He marked a spot.

"Yeah, I know that place. It's an abandoned movie theater."

John came over and looked at the map. "Oh, it looks like we'll get to go over the Golden Gate Bridge."

"For the love of all that's holy, NO!" Monk shouted.

At the same time, Sherlock argued, "It's just a bridge painted orange. Don't be boring."

"OK, I guess not," John responded.

They drove to the location and got out. "You've _got _to be kidding me," Monk said.

"Well, at least we know we got the right place," John said.

The theater, which looked very desiccated and old, had letters on the marquee that looked like they were falling apart and falling off, but they still spelled very clearly, "HAMLET."

They went to the entrance, and Sherlock gestured to the door. "Age before beauty," he said to Monk.

"Uh, British before American," he answered.

Sherlock shrugged at John. "Can't argue with that." He went in.


	12. Chapter 12

Note: I added another detail to the previous chapter. It doesn't really change any content of where the story's going next, but it does clear up a detail I feared was never going to be explained.

Monk's eyes narrowed right as he walked in and found who was waiting for him, a young man and an old man. "Lucarelli."

"Mr. Monk," the old man greeted.

"Fat Tony. I see you've gotten fatter."

"Yeah, lately I've been cheating on salads with pizza. So sue me," the younger man said.

"Where's Vince?"

"He's doing a little errand for us," Salvatore Lucarelli said. "Look, I wanna be up front about this, Monk. This was not our idea. We didn't wanna do this to you. We still respect you, after you prevented a mob war ten years ago. This goes over our heads."

"Over your head? You're the Godfather! You're the Godfather of godfathers!"

"Exactly. Look, I can't talk too much about it. He's got his own group of snipers that never miss and always go for the kill. But I mean it! It's nothing personal. I mean, after working with you, we considered going legit."

"Don't believe him," Sherlock said softly.

"I don't," Monk answered.

"Who's that, your lawyer?" Fat Tony asked.

"This is another detective."

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock introduced himself.

Fat Tony scoffed. "Yeah right, and I'm Luca Brasi." He and Sal laughed.

"This mocking coming from a man who calls himself 'Fat Tony'?"

"Hey, you wanna get into it?" Fat Tony started reaching around his waist.

"Whoa!" Sal said. "This conversation never happened. Mr. Holmes, you're welcome here."

"So Mr. Monk, where's the chick?"

"Excuse me?" Monk said.

"What happened to Sharona? Does she miss me?"

"I don't think, Tony. She's married now, and pregnant."

"Doesn't mean she doesn't miss me."

"Where are Tommy Grazer and Marge Johnson?"

"They're both here," Sal answered. "I can't say where, but I can tell you they're safe and unharmed. Out of respect to you, we have not touched a hair on their heads, or anywhere else for that matter. We made sure the old lady had all of her prescriptions, and we've just been feeding the boy candy."

Monk heaved a heavy sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness!"

"What kind of sweets?" Sherlock asked suspiciously. "Do you mean individually wrapped chocolates?"

"Oh yeah, imported, nothing but the best."

"Oh no," John said quietly.

"What's wrong?" Monk said. "It's just candy. Worst case scenario, he has a really bad tummy ache. No, actually, worst case scenario, he vomited a couple times."

"No," Sherlock said, "worst case scenario, he's dead."

"How so?"

"I did a case before where children were fed sweets wrapped in paper coated in mercury. The more they ate, the quicker they died. You better hope your son's learned some restraint."

"I swear we didn't know about that!" Sal said.

"So that's why it tasted funny," Fat Tony mused.

"Tony, you weren't supposed to eat them!"

"I just had one piece. I couldn't help it."

"So, he's repeating himself," Sherlock thought aloud. "Old Marge, did she have eczema?"

"No, I don't think so," Monk said.

"She had dry hands," Tony said. "We made sure to get her hand lotion."

"He knows a poison he could put into a lotion that can simulate a heart attack," Sherlock said.

"Or he could've put poisons in any of her medications," John said.

"Why are you guys assuming the worst?" Sal said. "I swear to you, we don't wanna kill 'em!"

Just then, Fat Tony's phone chirped. "I got the packages," a voice said on the other end.

Fat Tony spoke into it, "Sugarplums and nutcrackers?"

"I got 'em both."

"Excellent. Wrap 'em up and put 'em under the Christmas tree."

"What's that about?" Monk said.

"You didn't hear nothing."

"Well, yeah, I did. I can't un-hear it. I mean, if I could, I would."

"One more thing, Adrian," Sal said. "We are very sorry about your brother. Vince didn't wanna kill him, but he was ordered to shoot."

"What about Leyla and Monica?" Monk asked.

"We had nothing to do with that. He made it very clear that he wanted to be responsible for their deaths. Look, Mr. Monk, when this is all over, I swear I'll make it up to you, even if it means providing a fully-catered funeral."

"I don't want you to do my funeral."

"Don't be so quick to say no, my friend. We're rich, and we're Italian. We go all out!"

They step to the side where they couldn't be heard. "I'm afraid we've reached the point where we must part ways," Sherlock said. "John, you bear left, I'll bear right, Adrian you keep true. Look behind every door, under every cabinet."

"Right, we're looking for an eleven-year-old boy and an old woman, both of whom might be poisoned?" John said.

"Well, they may not be all," Monk said "Whatever Fat Tony was talking about wasn't Christmas; that's six months away. It sounded like two more victims."

"No, more than that," Sherlock argued.

"He said 'both.' That means two."

"He said 'sugarplum_s _and nutcracker_s_,' plural."

"Either way, there may be more."

"Right, I'll keep an eye out. What's the number, again, for the ambulance?"

"911! You're a doctor! How could you not know that?"

"Well, it's different in Britain, isn't it?" He started in his direction.

"Is it?" Monk asked Sherlock.

"Not important now," he answered.

"Oh, yeah, sorry."

"Good luck, Captain Cool," Sherlock said with a salute.

"Yeah, same to you," Monk said with a nervous nod. He started heading down his path.

"Adrian?" Sherlock called off after him. Monk stopped and turned around. "In case you meet the abductor first, don't believe a word he tells you."

"I won't." Straight ahead was the main theater. Monk went in. "Tommy? Marge? Anyone? I'm here to help! I'm with the police!" He didn't realize that the door shut and locked behind him.

Sherlock looked down the right corridor. He opened a door to a maintenance closet. "Who's there?" a voice called out.

"Old Marge?" he answered.

"What did you call me?" He could see a lady handcuffed to a pipe. "Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes. I'm a colleague of Adrian's."

"Adrian? Oh, how is he?"

"He's fine, for the moment." He came closer to pick the lock on her chain.

"My goodness, look at you! Skin and bones, and so pale! You need some color in those cheeks, young man. Tell you what, when this is all over, I'll make you a nice, hearty stew, and an apple pie. How's that?"

"They let you cook in the old people's home?"

"Sometimes. I wrote a cookbook. Oh, and I'll knit you a scarf."

"That alright, madam. I'm good on the scarf front."

"Then maybe a sweater?"

"If you must." He figured if he didn't like it he could give it to John.

He got her out and started heading back to the entrance. He met John on the way, who was carrying an unconscious boy in his arms. "I found him in the men's room. I think he's OK. His pulse is good, he's breathing, and most of the sweets were still wrapped. So he did show some restraint."

"Then they probably stopped feeding him so he didn't have a choice."

"Poor dear," Marge said.

"Well, I called the ambulance as a precaution."

"Good. Go on with them, make sure they get the right care. I'm going to find Monk."

"Wait, what about the other victims?"

"Come on, John, you remember Moriarty's grand finale. Who do you think he cares about the most?"

John started to realize. "Oh no. Listen, if one of them's Natalie—"

"Of course one of them is Natalie!"

"—then I wanna help."

"The best way you can help is to leave this to me. Mr. Monk may think he doesn't know who I am, but I know who he is. Moriarty's gonna rip him open, and I'm not about to let that happen."

So John reluctantly let him go. Sherlock found the theater, but he found the doors shut and locked. He thought about picking the lock or kicking down the door, but then he saw a door nearby that read "Personnel Only." He knew that was the room up with the projector, so he ran up it.

Monk was searching through all the seats for any victims when the lights went up. "I kept saying hi to you, kept waving at you. You never greeted me back. That's kinda rude." Monk looked up and saw a man standing in front of the screen, the same man in the video with the same evil brown eyes and the same twisted smile. "Did it have something to do with you questioning my existence?"


	13. Chapter 13

"Poor Adrian," he said pitifully when Monk wouldn't answer his question. "Poor, poor Adrian. Would it help if I told you that Moriarty is a _nom de plume_?"

That got Monk's attention. Could that be the secret he meant?

"I mean, it makes sense, doesn't it? I wonder why no one's pondered it before. After all, do I look Italian? Clothing aside, I mean."

"I suppose not," Monk finally answered. "Especially compared to the Lucarellis."

"Yeah, there you go."

But then he remembered what Sherlock warned. "No, I don't believe you."

"Then what do you believe?"

"I really don't know any more. I don't know if I should even care anymore. Look, where are they? What have you done with Tommy Grazer and Marge Johnson?"

"Oh, don't worry about them. You shall be reunited soon enough. I just want a moment of your time, help you see things a little more clearly."

"I see things clearly enough. I know you kidnapped and killed people who are dear to me. I know you have no regard for decency. I know you are a monster."

"Yes, all you say is true, but how well do you know the man you call your colleague?"

Monk didn't answer right away.

"I know you also think he's a delusion."

"No, he's a detective. He might be Sherlock Holmes, as impossible as it seems. I haven't decided yet."

"You know, I'm really surprised you found that out so quickly. I've been planning this for a full year, ever since we first met."

"You think I don't read?"

"Fair point. But there are other things about him you don't know. Do you remember when you came to London and you were told there was a 'credibility hit?'" He pulled out a remote and pointed it up to the projector. "Here's what happened."

The projector next to Sherlock started. At first he ducked out of the way, but then he saw what it was playing. It was footage taken from an adjacent building to Bart's when he was standing on the roof. The sound over it was a recording of Sherlock's "confession" to John. Around of the end of it, Sherlock started knocking on the glass. "MONK! IT'S A LIE! HE MADE ME SAY IT! HE WAS GOING TO KILL JOHN!" Moriarty looked at him angrily, but he didn't do anything else. The footage ended with Sherlock supposedly falling to his death.

"So?" Monk reacted.

"So?" Moriarty repeated. "Is that all you got to say? He should be dead!"

"Have you read his stories? Sherlock Holmes is known for primarily two things—being a brilliant detective, and faking his own death. 'The Final Problem' was supposed to be Arthur Conan Doyle's last Sherlock Homes story. He was tired of writing of them, and he wanted to go on to other things, like proving that fairies were real. But Sherlock Holmes was brought back to life by popular demand in 'The Empty House.' Fictional characters can do that, evidently."

"Yes, but this isn't a story. This really happened!"

"But this is what you expect from someone who calls himself Sherlock Holmes! That's all that is; he faked his death! It's no big deal. I faked my death once. I was kinda forced to make the same declaration. Just about everybody thought I died a murderer."

"Aren't you at least wondering how this could be possible? I mean, look at the footage; it's convincing. The whole nation thought he was dead for a long time."

"You're right, it is convincing. I'll ask to ask him about that later, if he even wants to talk about it. He didn't before." Sherlock heard that, and it gave him some hope. "But do you know what's the bigger mystery? The bigger mystery is what you're doing here. Because Professor James Moriarty died in Reichenbach Falls. He did not survive 'The Final Problem' because there was no popular demand for him. People don't like villains."

"Well, obviously you've never seen _The Godfather _or _The Sopranos _or _Dexter._ People love villains."

"Sure, when it's a fictional villain, but in real life, we know what you're like. We know what you do to people, what hurt you cause, and we don't want that. There's only one place you belong here on earth—prison!"

Sherlock was watching, and he was impressed. Monk seemed to have more guff than he thought.

"Why do you keep doing these things? Why is it so important to you?"

"I want you question reality, what you think you know, what you believe, just as you have been. Because to be honest, Adrian, I was hoping you'd go mad.

"Why?"

"It's the kindest thing I could do to you. It's so strange, isn't it? Madness, it's such a misnomer. Equating insanity with anger? When in reality people who are insane are perhaps the happiest in the world. Think about it. There's a reason why the Cheshire Cat has such a wide smile. Even Hamlet looked like he was having fun when he was supposedly mad."

"Hamlet. Why all this stuff about _Hamlet_? Is it because it's tragic? Is it because he's depressed, contemplating suicide?"

"I thought you'd like, actually. Doesn't _Hamlet _strike you as a murder mystery?"

"What? No, because his father told him everything from the beginning."

"Come on. Poison in the ear? 'Murder most foul,' _that _would interest someone like Sherlock Holmes." He added with a extra large grin, "And of course, you know how it ends."

"Everybody dies."

"Exactly. But we'll get to that later. Back to madness. You know why they're happy? Because they have nothing to worry about. No consciousness of the world, no worries. Just their mind, and their mind never lets them down."

Sherlock took note of that quote.

"You've clearly never been there," Monk said. "You've never been trapped in your mind. It wasn't carefree! It was the worst time of my life."

"It was the best time of his!" Sherlock called. "Wasn't it, Moriarty? Isn't that what this is about?"

"Don't you know it's rude to shout from the back of the theater?" he yelled back at him.

"He has a point," Monk said. "When I was discharged, it was easier for people like you, people like Dale Biederbeck and the Lucarellis and . . . Ethan Rickover. You call those 'the good ole days'? 'Cause I wasn't there to catch you?"

"As I told you before, Adrian, I'm testing you, the way I tested him. And there's one more test." He pulled out a phone. "Vince? Tony? Bring in the sugarplums."

They wheeled in two glass cases, which looked like those glass booths that people step in and they turn on a fan and money goes flying everywhere. They were both covered in sheets, and once the mobsters had them positioned, they removed the sheets. Monk's heart jumped into his throat as he saw the occupants in these booths.

Natalie and Sharona.

They both saw him too, and they started yelling at once and banging on the walls. Moriarty came in between them and held up a hand to stop them. "I want to ask you something, Monk. Who do you love more?"

"What kind of question is that?" Monk asked.

"A relevant one. It's one I've been pondering for years, almost like the Kirk/Picard debate. They both have their charm. Of course, I can see why you hired both of them. They did things for you they wouldn't dare do for any other human being. And you called them your assistants? We both know that to you, that's just a nicer word for 'slave.'"

"No, Mr. Monk, don't listen to him," Natalie said.

"Ah, Natalie. You've known her longer, and she takes a lot more from you. She understood you on a different level because she was a widow. She knew what it was like to have the love of her life suddenly taken from her. She knew how it hurt. She knew how you hurt. Could that be why she did so many ungrateful tasks without question?

"Now, Sharona, she didn't stay with you as long. She was smart enough to get out in time. But no matter what Natalie does for you, Sharona's a nurse! She knew exactly on a physical level what you needed and why you needed it. You never had that with Natalie. And she's always going to be the one who pulled you back into the world, out of that dark pit you put yourself in. It's never been the same without her, has it? So, which one do you love more? Which one of these ladies mean the most to you?"

Monk started to say something, but Moriarty stopped him. "No, don't answer yet. See, I was going to stop there, but then I thought, why don't I raise the stakes, make it a bit more interesting?" He spoke into the phone, "Boys? The nutcrackers."

They brought in two more glass cases, covered like the last two, and when they removed the sheet, Captain Stottlemeyer and Dr. Bell were revealed. Just like Sharona and Natalie, they shouted and banged on the booths, though the captain did it more.

"Leland Stottlemeyer," Moriarty said. "Probably the closest thing you have to a friend. Even though he took your badge, he learned to trust you when no one else would. He cared about you when no one else would. He sent you Sharona. He assigned you cases. He followed them through, even when he didn't believe you.

"And then, there's Dr. Neven Bell. He holds your mind in his hands. He's able to give you solace and advice, but he could just as well crush you. But you see him as a saint, working miracles, slowly making you normal, or as close to normal as you can get.

"Think hard about this, Monk. Which of these four people do you love more?"

Monk hesitated. He started rocking on his heels and looking away.

"Am I making you uncomfortable? Of course, I don't mean sexually! I know you don't do that. I mean, which of them is the most important to you? Which of them would your life suffer the most if they were gone forever?"

"It's a trap, Monk," Stottlemeyer said. "Don't fall for it."

"I hate to make judgment calls, but he's right," Dr. Bell said. "Don't listen to this old son of a gun!"

Sherlock knew what was coming. He knew whatever was going to happen next was going to be a loss. He stood ready for the next moment.

Monk was thinking about a conversation he had with Salvatore Lucarelli. He had told him he wouldn't take the case, and Lucarelli asked him if he was right or left-handed. He hastily answered "right," but then he realized what he was implying, and made sure he said he used the left hand too. Somehow this felt like the same thing.

"We're all waiting, Adrian," Moriarty said.

"I know exactly what you mean," he answered. "They're like my hands. I love my hands, both of them. They're an important part of me. Even if I don't always use one, it doesn't make me love it any less. If I lost either one, I'd never be the same again, never. So I will never let anything happen to them." He stared at Moriarty for a while.

And then, Moriarty laughed. "Of course. I was so stupid. I completely forgot! It's right here, 'still has problems making decisions,' isn't that right, Neven? I was wrong. I was completely wrong making you choose like this. Forgive me, Adrian, forgive my foolishness." He laughed more of his embarrassment, and then he looked straight at Monk and said, "So I'm gonna kill all of them."

"NO! Don't do this. Natalie's got so much to live for; she's starting her life anew with a new husband. Sharona's just about to be a mother again. Leland's still enjoying his new wife; they haven't even been married for five years. And Dr. Bell doesn't talk much about his recent personal life, but he has a right to live too."

Moriarty yawned. "All so boring." He pulled out of his jacket some huge syringes.

"I WON'T LET YOU!" Monk came up to the stage and started physically fighting Moriarty. He punched him several times and threw him on the ground. Moriarty tussled with him a bit, but he was clearly letting Monk have the upper hand. The battle almost felt like when Monk had a physical altercation with the six-fingered man who killed his wife. But it finally ended when Monk tried to pry the syringe out of his hand. Moriarty pulled for a moment, and then he let go. Monk fell on the floor, and then he heard shattering glass and felt it cut into him.

"Your heroism got the best of you, Adrian. That poison is so much more deadly in a liquid state than it is as a gas. You'll be dead in an hour, maybe less." He squatted down and smiled at Monk. "And now, here you are, facing your greatest fear of all, and the last thing you'll see is my face, and the last thing you know is that I have won. 'Now cracks a noble heart. Goodnight, sweet prince, and flights of angels—'"

"No." Adrian looked up at him. "You've won nothing. You don't understand. People don't understand. For a while, even I didn't understand. Your fears are just beginning, but death . . . that's the last thing I'm afraid of." He closed his eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

At the hospital, John talked to the doctor looking after Monk, and he looked in on him himself. Then he went into the waiting room where Sherlock, Natalie, Sharona, Randy, Stottlemeyer, and Dr. Bell were all waiting. He took a deep breath. "Well, if any of you are in any way religious, now would be a good time to pray."

"Didn't you find the antidote?" Natalie asked.

"No, the doctors found the antidote quickly after Sherlock gave them the sample of the poison, and they administered it, but it looks like it's too late. He's fading. There's just a little bit of brain activity, like he's trying to hang on, but we're about to the point where you blink, and it's gone."

Natalie began to cry. John sat down to comfort her, and he whispered, "I'm so sorry." Sharona also burst into tears, and Randy held her. Leland bowed his head and started whispering under his breath.

Sherlock was getting bored; his only entertainment was shaking out the last bits of ice out of the bottom of his Styrofoam cup. So he walked up to John. "Let me talk to him."

"Sherlock, I don't think that's a good idea."

"I have something I must tell him. If there's brain activity, there's a chance he might hear me."

"Go ahead, doctor," Dr. Bell said. "Let him. At the very least, this may be cathartic."

"What do you mean, the beginning of my therapy?"

"Sherlock, he's making your case," John said quietly. "It's probably not such a good idea to get snippy."

"It's alright. Adrian's like that sometimes," Dr. Bell said with a sad smile.

"What room is he in?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, I'll take you down there," John said.

"John, I should go alone. What I have is something only he and I can understand. Detectives, you know."

John looked at Dr. Bell, and he nodded. "Alright, I'll talk to the doctors, let them know what's going on."

"So what room is he in?"

"Second floor, room twenty, second bed."

Sherlock nodded. "221B." He walked past him.

* * *

"Mr. Monk . . . . Mr. Monk . . . . Adrian Monk . . . . It's me, Mr. Monk. Sherlock . . . Holmes."

Monk opened his eyes and saw someone sitting down with him in a completely empty white room. He looked the way Adrian always thought he looked, not with the deerstalker and the tweed coat and pipe, but the way he always pictured him. The clothes he wore were like a librarian's, or a college professor's, formal enough to make him look intelligent. His face was like Mr. Cooper's from _The Cooper Clan_, the male figure Monk used to trust the most.

But the voice . . .

It was the impostor's voice.

"No. Go away! You're not real."

"Yes, I am."

"You're a figment. You're not even that, you're a pigment! A delusion, an illustration, a blur. That's what you are, a blur. Unless I'm wrong, which you know, I'm not."

The man sat in front of him so that he could look straight at him. "This time, you are wrong. You are quite wrong. You're not psychologically delicate, far from it. You never were."

"Excuse me, it's my mind. I think I know it better than you do."

"I know it better than you think." He looked harder at him. "Consider this, Mr. Monk, has your mind ever betrayed you?"

Monk stood. "Of course it has! All the time! Do you even know me? Do you-?"

But he stood too. "Think of one time, one time your mind betrayed you, one time it prevented you from solving a case."

"TRUDY'S DEATH!" Suddenly, in the room, he saw her car blowing up. "The clues were all there, but I couldn't see them. I couldn't even move. Three years, I couldn't leave my house."

"No, that doesn't count. That's not your mind. That's your emotions, you heart."

"Emotions aren't in the heart, you know that."

"Fine, it's your hypothalamus. The point is, they're fickle, and they do betray you. They are not to be trusted. That's why I believe they should not be considered a true part of the mind. Think of another time. When has your mind betrayed you?"

Monk shut his eyes a few seconds, and he could hear trash bags falling around him. They were walking down the streets of San Francisco during what was probably the second worst part of his life. "There was a garbage strike a few years ago. The stench! It was everywhere. I couldn't concentrate, and when there was a murder, I couldn't solve it. I even said that Alice Cooper did it."

"No, that's the environment agitating your senses. Your medulla oblongata is responsible for that. If you let it, it can trap you in your own, personal nightmare. I'd say 'don't let it,' but I fear for you it's too late."

"What about everything else? My fears? My obsessions, my compulsions, my social deficits? Isn't that my mind betraying me?"

The man looked at him again. "I'm talking about your cerebral function. Your logic, your problem-solving skills, your knowledge, your imagination, you memory. Think, Mr. Monk. Has it ever betrayed you?"

Monk was silent, like he didn't know how to answer.

"That moment, when you were buried alive, and you relived that memory with your wife, did it betray you then?"

He remembered.

"Let's talk about something else," Monk said.

"How did you know it was him?" Trudy asked him.

"I saw the stamp on the back of his head."

"No," he answered.

"When you went down into the ocean and you believed your therapist came with you, did it betray you then?"

He remembered. Dr. Bell helped point out clues to him, helped encourage him. Even though he wasn't really there, he couldn't have solved the case without him.

"No," he answered.

"When your favorite actress attacked you and knocked you out, did it betray you then?"

That was one of his favorites. He was a character on the set of his former favorite show. "It was all about this, your Silver Globe Award." Even then, he solved the case.

"No."

"Do you understand now? Is there any time it stood in your way?"

He thought of every investigation, every time he said "Here's what happened," every time he solved the case.

"No. Never. Never! I never had a case unsolved, even if they take long. I have my mind to thank."

The man looked at him again, straight at him. "You see? Moriarty was right about one thing. Your mind never lets you down. Do you see how immense it is, how wondrous? It's a palace, Adrian!" It seem to change around them into the most amazing mansion he'd ever seen. "Walk around it. See it, hear it, touch, smell it, taste it. It's only a prison if you choose to lock yourself in. And I'm not saying that's not a viable option. I often think when I get too to do this anymore and I'm alone because everyone I've ever known has died, I'm just going to lock myself in, throw away the key. And I know I'll be happy, blissfully happy, for the rest of my days."

"I don't know if I can do that."

"Should be simple. Your mind is your greatest ally, Mr. Monk. Never take it for granted, never limit it, and never belittle it. In fact, your mind is the only thing keeping you alive right now. I'm just trying to keep it engaged so we don't lose you."

"Why?"

"Because you're a good detective. And we still have much to discuss."

"How do you know these things?"

"We are more alike than you think, Mr. Monk." He said that very slowly. Each k sounded very exasperated. "Listen to me. If you don't believe in me, believe in this. You'll thank me later. Your mind," he touched the middle of Monk's forehead with his forefinger, and it felt so cold, and then he got into Monk's face and whispered, "that's the best part." Monk was still uncertain what to say, so he took that hand. It was still so cold. Sherlock smiled and start to pull him out.

Monk opened his eyes again. He was in a hospital room. There was only one guest in the room. He noticed that he really was holding his hand.

"Sherlock. Thank you."

"Told you so."

"Your hand is very cold."

"I've been eating ice."

"You shouldn't do that. You don't want British teeth."

"I think you're a little late for that." Sherlock chuckled.

"Sorry, Sherlock, I can't laugh. It hurts."

"So, you believe me now."

"You saved my life. I might as well."

* * *

The antidote started taking effect rather quickly. The doctors moved him to the same room with his brother to recover. The whole gang came to visit the next day.

"What happened to Moriarty?" Monk asked.

"You don't have to worry about him anymore," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, after you went out, things got a little crazy," Sharona said.

"That's putting it mildly," Natalie said.

"I don't understand. What happened?" Monk asked.

"War," Stottlemeyer answered.

"You don't really wanna know, Mr. Monk," Natalie said.

"Yeah, it's actually a good thing you lost consciousness when you did. You wouldn't be able to stand the mess," Sharona said.

"So he's dead?"

"Not in the . . . strictest sense."

"He's incapacitated," Sherlock answered.

"Right, that's a good way to put it."

"You need to thank Mrs. Disher. It was mostly her."

"Hey, call me Sharona, honey."

"Getting back at the stalker?" Monk said.

"Yeah," she answered a little bashfully.

"So, is he in jail?"

"He's in the hospital under heavy guard. He's probably not going to stay there," Sherlock answered. "He's got ways of getting out of it. We also lost track of the Lucarellis, unfortunately."

"Well, they're a mob. They got ways of staying above it. But we haven't seen the last of them. Sal said they'd make this up to me, remember?"

Sherlock nodded. "Right."

"Well, we gotta get going," Stottlemeyer said. "Holmes, everything Lestrade's said about you is true."

"Well, you are much like Lestrade, Captain, except you're larger and you have a much more amusing name."

Stottlemeyer pressed together his lips to hide his resentment. He shook Sherlock's hand. "You're always welcome on the team. Come back to San Francisco anytime." He then shook Randy's hand. "It was good to see you again, Randy."

"You too, sir," he answered. "It was just like old times. Sharona and I need to get back to the shore. We'll let you all know when little Adrian gets here. We'll send you lots of pictures."

"You'll come to the wedding, right?" Natalie said.

"Wouldn't miss it," Sharona said. "Adrian's due way before then."

"So, we'll see you all then," Randy said. He started shaking hands all around, but when he got to Sherlock he jumped a bit. "Oh, I almost forgot. I looked it up, on that family tree website. If you want British relatives, you gotta go all the way back to the Mayflower. But I did find out something really interesting. My great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather fought in the American Revolution. He was a hero at Yorktown, where you guys surrendered. Guess what his last name was?"

"Anderson?" Sherlock said, a little doubtfully.

"Rosencrantz?" Monk guessed.

"Guildenstern?" John said.

"Washington? Franklin? Jefferson? Revere? Arnold?" Stottlemeyer said just throwing out answers.

Randy shook his head and answered with a grin, "Holmes."

And John saw an expression on his friend's face that he'd never seen before and he was sure he'd never see again. His jaw dropped, and all the blood drained out of his face. "What?!"

Randy just nudged his shoulder. "See ya later, _cousin_." And he walked out.

Natalie and John both laughed so hard. Sherlock still looked stunned. "He didn't just say we're related? I have that nutter on my family tree?"

"That's what you get for mocking him. That's karma," Natalie said.

"No such thing, Miss Teeger."

"This is a rare sight. Better preserve it," John said getting out his phone and taking a picture.

"Stop it, John!"

"Well, it is a fairly common name," Monk shrugged. "I mean, you don't really think you're related to that kid in Colorado."

"Or Katie Holmes," Natalie said. "Just think, if you were, that means you were briefly in-laws with Tom Cruise."

"Who?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, Tommy!" Monk suddenly said. "What happened to Tommy and Marge? Are they OK?"

"Marge was rather bright. She didn't take anything the mobsters gave her. She only pretended to take the medicine, but she disposed of it in the toilet."

"What about the hand lotion?"

"She didn't use it on her hands. She used it around the handcuff to get it looser."

"So, she was trying to escape. Why didn't she?"

"Because she knew you'd come."

Monk smiled. "She remembered me. But what about Tommy?"

"He didn't eat any of the poison candy until he couldn't stand it, so he didn't get much."

"All the mercury is out of his system," John said. "He's fine. In fact, I hear he's been asking about you."

* * *

Once the nurses okayed Monk to get up and walk around, he found Tommy's room. Tommy had curly hair and was rather pale. In fact, he looked a lot like Monk looked like as a kid, except he was more fair-haired. The boy was sitting in his room with a book he was holding upside down. "Excuse me, you're holding that book upside-down," Monk said apologetically.

"Mmm-hmm," the boy answered as he ran his finger down the page.

"You might wanna turn it around. You'll be able to read it better."

But the boy groaned and threw it over. Then he looked up.

"Hi, Tommy. Do you, remember me?"

"Are you Adrian Monk?" he asked.

"That's right, yeah."

"Wow, you look just like him."

"Like who?"

"I had an imaginary friend when I was little. You look just like him. His name was Monk. He was very, very nice. In school, the other kids called him the Monkey Man, so I stopped imagining him."

"So that's the way you kept my memory alive? See, when you were two—"

"I know. Mom and Dad told me. You must have been a very good man if I remembered you that long."

"Thank you, Tommy. I missed you."

"So, you're really a detective?"

"Uh-huh."

"I love mysteries. I always have; I never really understood why. Guess it was because of you. What's it like? Is it fun?"

"Yeah, sometimes it is fun. It's a little scary most of the time."

"It's like you solve puzzles all the time, play games."

"Well, sorta. It's a little hard knowing that people get seriously hurt because of those puzzles and games."

"Is it hard? I know the books are really hard."

Monk opened his mouth to say, but then someone behind him said, "It takes practice." Monk turned around and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway. "The more you learn, the more you observe, the more you remember, the easier it gets."

"Was is that, your 'stay in school, don't do drugs' speech? You don't have to worry about that."

"I saw you looking at the solution. Don't get discouraged; just keep trying."

"OK, well, thank you Mr. . . ."

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." He reached out to shake Tommy's hand.

Tommy's eye grew wide. "Really? You're Sherlock Holmes? Wow, I hear of all the detectives in history, you're the best. I had no idea you were real!"

"Yeah, he's kinda a friend of mine," Monk said. "Mysteries are a lot easier solve when you don't do them alone."

"Can I have your autograph? I'd ask you to sign my book, but it's from the library."

"That's alright," Sherlock said. "I have some paper here." He ripped out a page from something he carried under his arm, and he got out a pen and signed it quickly. "Adrian, why don't you sign it, too?" Monk nodded. He handed the sheet to him. "Don't worry if it looks a little messy. It adds character. Give him a little advice." Monk looked at the paper and gave Sherlock an amazed look. "Go on," Sherlock urged.

So Monk signed his name, and then he handed the paper to Tommy. The boy's eyes just about popped out of his head. "Learn, observe, remember. Best wishes, Sherlock Holmes. Keep your eyes open. Adrian Monk. Mom, Dad, look at this!" He held up the paper. It was the title page to _The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_, and Sherlock had signed his name right underneath the name of his literary counterpart. "I wanna frame this. Mom, can I frame it?"

Mrs. Murphy touched Sherlock's arm on the way out. "That was very nice of you to do."

"My pleasure, madam," he answered.

"So why did you do that?" Monk asked as they left.

"If I'm right, I'm starting the cycle."

"The cycle?"

"I was inspired by Poe's Dupin. You were inspired by Conan Doyle's Holmes. And this lad is inspired by us. I think we just found the very rare Type D detective fan."

"What kind of fan is that?"

"The kind both of us were at one time, the next generation of detectives."


	15. Chapter 15

They made it back to Monk's apartment that evening. Ambrose approached Sherlock. "You know, all the anesthesia may have made me a little loopy, and I might be hearing things. Are you _really _Sherlock Holmes?"

He nodded. "That is my name."

"Dad used to read those stories to us. He did voices and everything. 'Brilliant, Holmes, brilliant!'"

"Yes, your brother told me."

"Well, I wish I knew. I would've felt better about you taking me out of the house."

"I think you would be much like my brother, Ambrose, if you got out a bit more."

Monk joined them. "Adrian," Ambrose said, "you have a very nice place. I'm glad I had the chance to stay here."

"I was glad to have you, Ambrose. You're welcome to come by anytime."

Ambrose looked at Natalie. "I wanna go home."

"Alright, I'll drop you off on the way," she answered.

"We should leave while it's dark," Sherlock said to John. "I drive better in the dark, or at least I do here. If we leave at night here, we'll arrive early in the morning in London."

"Well, before you go, there's one other thing you could help me with," Monk said. "Sorta a cold case I've been thinking about for a while."

"Very well, I think I could manage some time. What is it?"

Monk went to the bookcase and pulled the box that contained the smart phone Molly got for him. "How do you turn this thing on?"

"You got to put in the battery, obviously."

"Sherlock," John gently scolded.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a breath. "Here, let me show you." They sat at the table, and Sherlock helped him take the phone out and put in the battery. "Now, it needs to charge overnight."

"Overnight? So I don't get to play with it until morning?"

"Relax. I'll show you the basics on my mobile."

Watching them discuss this made John smile. It made Natalie happy too. But then Ambrose impatiently said, "Natalie!"

"I'll pack us up," John said. "Natalie will drop me off in the airport. I'll meet you at the gate. Just take your time." He shook Monk's hand. "It was nice seeing you again, Mr. Monk."

"You as well, doctor," he replied.

"Any chance you could just call me John?"

"Why? I grateful for your title."

"Sherlock," Natalie said, "I don't know what you said to Mr. Monk, but it worked a miracle. I could not be more grateful." She kissed his cheek. "Thank you."

"No trouble," he mumbled. He reached into his coat and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. "Your fiancé will be looking for these. I don't like how they tinge the world, but they fulfilled their purpose."

"Well, I'm glad to be part of the process."

Once she and John walked out of the door, Sherlock asked, "Do you have a spare wipe?"

"Do you ask Picasso if he has a spare paintbrush?" Monk asked as he got a wipe out of his pocket. They both laughed.

They spent about two hours discussing how to use a phone. Sherlock showed him how to make a call, how to save contacts, how to text, how to use Skype, how to use GPS, how to connect to the Internet, even how to find a radar in case a body or evidence was wet from rain but everything else was dry. It was a bit overwhelming, but in the end, Monk was starting to wonder why everyone wasn't a detective. After he got it all figured out, they just started talking.

"I have to say, I was impressed with how you handled yourself with Moriarty," Sherlock told him. "It was better than I expected from you."

"I can really face down some criminals. I didn't really get a chance with him last time, though I tried."

"You even used this to your advantage." Sherlock picked up _The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. _"That was quite brilliant."

"Well, one thing I've learned in my life is if you have a curse, that doesn't mean you can't make it work for you."

"Yes, I like that. One thing, though, from what I read of this, it's not me. It's uncannily similar, yes, so much so that I wonder if should start looking for a certain Doctor, but it's just too different."

"What do mean 'doctor'? You need a therapist? Because Dr. Bell is pretty good."

"That's a British science-fiction reference. Don't worry about it."

"OK. Well, it is pretty uncanny." He looked at him. "Sherlock, did we really have that conversation in the hospital, about my mind?"

"Yes, we did."

"How?"

"I was just talking. I could tell from the feedback of the machines that you were responding. So I just imagined how that conversation would go if we were talking to each other. As similar as our minds are, I think I made a good estimate."

"You said things I didn't think I told you."

"I found some details in Miss Teeger's house. Maybe you blocked out some of the memory of us in Moriarty's trap."

"It's possible. You really think we're so alike? 'Cause, really, beyond our profession, I don't see it."

"What don't you see?"

"Well, there's a big age difference, a big culture difference, we solve cases completely differently, and you like spiders."

"I do, but I don't likes wasps."

"My mother used to say, 'If you don't bother them, they won't bother y—"

"RUBBISH! I once got into a wasp's path, and I stood perfectly still, didn't move a muscle, didn't even bat an eye. I still got stung. Wasps don't guard their stings as jealously as bees because they don't die once they sting. I once developed an experiment to test what's the acceptable radius where a wasp is 'not bothered,' but I couldn't bring myself to test it, and Mother wouldn't let me use Mycroft to test it, even when I offered to pay him. Now, spiders catch wasps. They're Nature's pest control. You should learn to get along with them."

"Alright. Well, it is kinda reassuring that you have a couple of phobias, wasps and heights, but you're not bombarded by them. And you don't have all the obsessions and compulsions and social deficits."

"Do you think just because I don't have them now means that I never had them?" He leaned over. "I'll tell you a secret. When I was very little, about five years old, I had a very strong phobia that affected my performance in school, a phobia so rare that it didn't have a name—filmstrips."

"Filmstrips?"

"You know, educational filmstrips with the still pictures and the tape with the soundtrack and the tones. Thinking back on it, I think my problem was actually with the tape. It bothered me that there were noises that seemed to be coming out of nowhere, a tone I couldn't anticipate, and a lot of times there'd be a female speaker throughout the tape, and then at the end of the tape it was a male speaker. I couldn't predict that either. So when the teacher put on a filmstrip, I used to throw a tantrum, and I wasn't able at that point to really verbalize what the problem was."

"Well, that's something that's not in the book. How'd you get over it?"

"Mostly, it was taken care of by progress. Filmstrips turned into videotapes, which turned into laser disks, which turned into DVDs, and of course any of that information can be found on the Internet."

"Were you OK in that projection room?"

"Oh, I was fine with projectors. I even liked watching them work more than watching the film. But I had similar fears. I've had problems with loud noises certain textures. And I've done things when I'm bored, when I'm impatient, sometimes for no reason at all to make me feel better. John calls them 'stims,' but I don't really know what that means. As for social deficits, it's not that I don't have them, it's that I don't care. I'm sure John could tell you that I _do _have them."

"So you never make conversation cards just to talk to people?"

"No, because I don't make conversation unless absolutely necessary. It's mind-numbingly dull, just chatting!"

"You wanna have conversations with me."

"Yes, but it's not just to chat, is it? Don't worry, you'll always have something to say."

"Do you ever worry about not being . . . normal?"

"Never! And I didn't think you did either. Besides that brilliant mind, that's what I like the best about you."

"Thank you."

Sherlock checked his watch. "Well, I better be off. I'll probably text you when I get to London. In fact, expect me to text or Skype you daily from now on."

"Are you coming to Natalie's wedding?"

"John probably will, but not me. I don't like weddings."

"Me neither, but she's making me come. She wants me to learn the piece she and Steven will have their first dance with on my clarinet, the theme from _Up_?"

Sherlock snapped his fingers. "Oh, that's something we never got to do. What's the American word for it, 'jam'? Maybe some other time."

"You know, the last couple of weddings I went to had murders. In fact, the last one had an explosion."

"Sounds like fun. Enjoy it." He started heading for the door.

"So, this is it, then? We call, we text, we video conference, but we're not gonna see each other in person anymore?"

"I wouldn't say _that_! I wouldn't say that at all. I have other enemies. I'm rather sure you do too. Though I hope you come to London next time. America is just too . . . bright and touchy."

"Well, just in case." Monk extended his hand. "Even if you are fictional, even if you really were a delusion, I'm glad to have met you."

Sherlock took his hand and shook it heartily. "Likewise." They both even smiled a little. When Monk let go, he didn't go looking for a wipe. "Have a good night, Mr. Monk." He started to leave again

"Sherlock," Mr. Monk called back. Sherlock turned around. "If you ever do see Monsieur Dupin again, give him my regards."

Sherlock looked down. "Yeah, I should've told you. Just after we met, a couple months later, he . . . died. Natural causes. Heart attack. Parisian diet without the wine. And he smoked, encouraged me to quit."

"Really? That's a shame, I mean about Dupin, not about your quitting, which is impressive. Conan Doyle's Sherlock didn't quit pipe-smoking or cocaine."

"Yes. Well, like his literary counterpart, Dupin's illustrious career was cut short too soon. He left a void, a void I try to fill." He shook his head. "It wouldn't be right for me to leave you on such an unhappy note. You get your clarinet, I'll get my violin, we'll find something to play."

"Just when was that, when he passed away?"

"2001, yes, just before 9/11."

"Yeah, I was wondering, because I once called Paris when I read an international news story about a crime there that had the police baffled. I helped them solve it. If Auguste Dupin was really there, they wouldn't have a problem. But I think that was 2002, maybe 2003."

"Yes, just after he passed. Now, go get your clarinet."

Once Monk was gone, Sherlock turned around, got out his phone, pulled up his blog, scrolled down to Dupin's comment, and pushed delete. A message popped up, "Are you sure you want to delete your comment?" He pushed yes, and the message disappeared. He sighed, put his phone away, and went to the car to get his violin.


End file.
